


Making a Graceful Exit

by ScrollingKingfisher



Series: Abandoned Machinery [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Grace, Angelic True Forms, Castiel's True Form, Dean's adventures with Dr Sexy, Ghosts, Grigori, Jody's Mum Voice, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Metamorphosis, Soul Bond, Soul Magic, Temporary Character Death, The Winchester Gospels, Torture, Witches, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrollingKingfisher/pseuds/ScrollingKingfisher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Sam had woken up naked and tied down. It was really quite depressing how routine all of this was for him. Hell, this wasn't even the first time this month.'</p>
<p>The brothers bite off more than they can chew when dealing with a coven of witches, and Sam pays a price. Accidentally absorbing Grace was never a good idea, but with other much more powerful enemies lurking in the shadows adaptation may be the key to their survival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freakin' Witches

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> One of my multitude of story starters morphed into this enormous monster while I wasn't looking. All the chapters are written and I'll post every few days after they've gone through my rigorous spell checking. Because no one wants to be stabbed with a bladder instead of a dagger. 
> 
> This diverges from canon in the back end of season 10, in a universe where the Mark of Cain isn't a problem and set before Charlie dies. Because I can.
> 
> Feedback is always welcome! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I like writing!

 

   He really shouldn’t be surprised at this point, Sam mused blearily as he stared at the ceiling of the warehouse. The hard stone of the sacrificial slab dug into his back and the rope chafed against his wrists as he wriggled slightly.

 

   He licked his lips with a dry tongue, tasting the ferrous tang of blood and something bitter on his skin. It was better than the taste inside his mouth, which felt as though a small rodent had crawled in and died.

  

   Sam had woken up naked and tied down. It was really quite depressing how routine all of this was for him. Hell, this wasn’t even the first time this month.

 

   Why was it always abandoned warehouses? Did the décor appeal or something? Was it their aesthetic? Hint of mould with a touch if ingrained filth? The only way that this one broke from the cliché was its size. The ceiling was lost in shadows above him, and it was at least thirty meters to the walls on either side. The vastness of the room meant that it swallowed any sounds he might have made easily.

 

   In a break from tradition, it wasn’t the angels or the demons this time. _Freakin’ witches_ , as Dean had muttered with a shudder as they started to investigate the grisly murders painting local houses in a new and interesting pattern of gore. He fuzzily remembered interviewing a neighbour who had found the most recent batch of bodies while Dean visited the morgue. They had been following up on some vague leads about a strange blonde woman in the area. He had left, and then…

 

   Sam turned his head painfully on the stone, squinting through the headache and the drugged, fuzzy feeling in his skull- and immediately got an eyeful of five completely naked witches, smeared in gory symbols.

 

   “Aww! What the…” That was not something he needed to see just after waking up. He scrunched his eyes shut again and turned his head the other way. His limbs were tremendously heavy and his movements were so slow it was like moving through treacle, as though there was a time delay on the messages from his brain to his body.

  

   He stopped, then blinked his gritty eyes and squinted, but yes, there was a tree in the warehouse. An enormous oak that must have been hundreds of years old, neatly cut off at the base with its leaves still green and glossy. He wondered groggily how the hell they had managed to get it inside.

 

   His attention was dragged back to his situation by the dull slapping of bare footsteps and then a shock of sharp pain along his ribs before he could turn. He yelped a slurred curse as one of the women dragged the knife deliberately across his chest, muttering incantations in Latin with a smattering of something older and rougher. He squirmed and struggled against the bindings on his wrists, but he was weak and his fingers were numb and clumsy and only vaguely attached to his body, and they knew what they were doing with the knots, damn it. After a moment he was gasping for air as though his lungs weren’t large enough, and was too exhausted to even raise his head and look at what the sigils she was carving into him were for. His stomach churned dizzily with the effects of whatever drugs they had given him and he had to concentrate on breathing through the pain and nausea. Throwing up now would not be ideal.

 

   The blade trailed across his skin, sharp enough not to hurt as it bit in, but the cuts had a chill sting and he could feel liquid warmth running down his sides and dripping onto the cold stone beneath him. The heat and life felt as though it was being sucked from his woozy body with the blood, and the drugs left him drowsy as though his mind had been washed up on the shore by a high tide, unable to escape.

 

   The rest of the witches had gathered around him in a circle holding hands, and he curled his lip at their shadowed faces in helpless defiance.

 

   The woman finished on his chest and the rest took up the chanting. He heard the words for ‘sacrifice’ and ‘bind’. There was no way this was going to end well. Sam felt a flicker of drug-muted anxiety. How long had he been here? What if Dean didn’t find him in time? He had some idea what the witches were planning on doing with him, and he was willing to bet that it didn’t involve him leaving the warehouse still breathing.

 

   As he let his wrists drop back to the slab in defeat, he felt something dig into the side of his palm. He concentrated, wriggling and scrabbling with numb fingers until he could pick it up. A nail. What the hell was it doing on a stone alter? He tucked it into his fist and began to slowly abrade the rope under the disguise of trying to squirm free. Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait for Dean to turn up after all.

 

   A sharp rip of sound was nearly enough to pull him out of his hazy concentration. A witch he hadn’t seen before was taking a chainsaw to the trunk of the huge oak, cutting through the thick boles like butter over the sound of the continued chanting. He seemed to take more care as he got closer to the centre of the tree, then finally got out a chisel and hammer.

 

   All of the witches were staring at the man by the tree as he worked, some craning round to look even as they kept chanting. Sam, who had been using the distraction to scrape at his ropes with renewed vigour, frowned as a scrap of memory pinged against his consciousness then flitted away like a large bug hitting a windshield. Something about Oak trees…

 

   The man hit the chisel a final time and was illuminated from behind by a flash of light from the tree, which slowly dimmed. The man straightened, stripped off the protective clothing on his body until he was naked and rune-covered like the others, then walked slowly forwards holding a glowing vial.

 

   Suddenly, Sam felt a sharp tug on his sternum as the symbols carved into his chest began to glow. He yelled over the chanting and dropped the nail, forgetting escape as the sigils seemed to burrow inside, carving through him with razor wire edges and twisting his guts inside out. They reached his heart with a sudden flair of sharp, hot pain, and his body bucked on the slab as every cell screamed as though he was on fire.

 

   Through the pain, he watched the man approach as he pulled against the restraints, desperately, instinctively trying to get free, but the rope was strong and only worn through half way and did not give. The agony in his heart pulsed in sympathy with the glow in the vial, and radiated through the rest of his body in tight spasms.

 

   As the man reached his head, the chanting reached a crescendo and he held the vial out over Sam’s body-

 

   Suddenly the door of the warehouse burst open with an enormous crash in a hailstorm of splinters and bright light.

 

   Sam’s agonised heart leapt when he saw his brother striding in, his face like a thundercloud about to let loose, and the familiar swish of a trenchcoat on his heels. The witches turned in unison, but their chanting continued, even faster than before.

 

   Sam saw Castiel’s face go pale and freeze in horror for a suspended second as he took in the altar, the tree, the vial. Then he shouted “No!” and was running forwards, stepping between Dean and the altar as the vial above Sam tilted downwards and the glowing liquid flowed from the container.

 

   Time seemed to slow down as he watched it, Dean and the chanting witches seeming dim and far away. He felt his breath catch and he stared up in wonder. Whatever the thing that had been in the vial was, it was beautiful; glowing bluish-white with tiny threads of gold running through it. As it escaped its confinement it turned gaseous, condensing into a bright ball like liquid in a space station. It seemed to hesitate for half a second, gently undulating in the cold air, then the sigils gave a painful twinge and it plunged downwards into Sam’s chest.

 

   He sucked in a shocked breath as it settled between his lungs, surprisingly cool and pleasant after the burning heat of the sigils. Nothing happened. The witches had stopped chanting and were staring avidly at his chest, frowns creasing their foreheads. But Castiel was still shoving Dean frantically back the way they had come despite Dean’s shouting and attempts to push him away, as though determined to put as much space between them and the alter as possible.

 

   Then he felt a cool shudder of energy ripple through his body, travelling down his limbs like water. The cool dropped to a bone chilling cold that stabbed right into the centre of his being. The glow in his chest began to grow, brighter and brighter, and now it was so cold that it was almost hot. He tried to contain it, but the energy and pressure was building. His back arched off the slab and he would have thrashed if his bonds had let him, the backs of his eyelids burning white. Distantly he heard the high, keening scream coming from his throat until his voice gave out. There was pressure, tremendous, rib-cracking pressure in his chest; he tried to take a breath but there was no room in his lungs, his heart felt as though it was being squeezed by an iron fist-

 

   There was a sudden shift somewhere in his body, a click as something gave way and dropped into place, and the energy exploded out of his heart, freezer burning his insides like liquid nitrogen. It ripped out of his body in a wave of light, then flooded back in like a tsunami, obliterating his scattered thoughts. Over the roaring in his ears he could hear voices screaming and couldn’t tell if they were his own or someone else’s. The light seared itself into his bones like the sigils on his ribs, sank deep into him and the burning lessened to a deep warmth but his heart still throbbed with pain.

 

   The light dimmed, and Sam sank gratefully into unconsciousness.


	2. The Grace Remix

   Dean was dragged from a restless sleep by a low, rough moan. Blinking the grit out of his eyes and trying to straighten his back from sleeping in a chair, he leaned over Sam, gently grabbing his shoulder as he tried to roll over on the bed.

 

   “Easy, Sammy. How‘re you feeling?”

 

   Sam’s face wrinkled and scrunched as though he was trying to come up with an answer to that question that didn’t involve cussing, his hair a shaggy mess across his face. He scrunched his eyes against the warm, soft light from the bulb overhead, taking in his surroundings. 

 

   “Wh…What happened? Are you okay?”

 

   Dean barked a rough laugh devoid of humour. “What do you mean am I okay? You were the one who nearly got himself blown up by witches.”

 

   As he stared at his brother, memories from the previous night came back in flashes; Sam, the bloody sigils visible even through the clouds of dust hanging in the air from the door and the freaky witches in the way, his body shaking like he was having a seizure, glowing eyes rolling as he jerked against the bindings. Cas leaping in front of him, yelling something unintelligible as he pushed him back. Cas’ blue eyes terrified and only inches from his own as he shielded him from the wave of pulsing, _screaming_ blue-white light. A pair of enormous, tattered shadow wings curled protectively around both of them, illuminated from behind before the light suddenly cut out.

 

   He had ignored the blood dripping from his ringing ears and staggered towards the slab, paying no attention to the smoke and the way the near side of the fucking _enormous_ _tree_ was glowing with embers and smoking sluggishly, and stepped onto the blackened fingers of the blast radius spreading twenty feet from the altar.

 

   He had tried not to look at the twisted charcoal statues that were all that was left of the witches as they passed, he and Cas holding each other up by this point.

 

   Dean felt a shudder pass through his body against his volition. Serves them right for trying to kill his little brother, but still. Yeugh.

 

   “How are we back at the Bunker? Where’s Cas?” A groggy voice from the bed brought him back to the present day.

 

   “Oh. On the couch. Said he was going to take a quick nap, like, five hours ago.”

 

   Sam’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “I thought he doesn’t need sleep since he got his grace back?” Dean shrugged.

 

   “He was exhausted ‘cos he had to heal you. Dunno what those weird symbols were, apparently they weren’t the normal kind he can just magic away. Wouldn’t heal completely even with the mojo, so you’ve got some scars.”

 

   Sam’s forehead crumpled even further as though he could force his giant brain to unscramble itself by sheer force of will as he pulled up the shirt he was wearing so he could stare down at the pale silvery lines etched into his flesh. Probably already trying to figure out what they meant, the nerd.

 

   Dean snorted, putting his hand to Sam’s forehead to check that his temperature was still down, smiling when Sam batted it away feebly. When he had first touched him on the altar, his head had been so hot he had nearly burnt Dean’s fingertips. He still couldn’t get the image out of his head of Sam lying on that slab as still as a corpse, with a temperature so high no human should have survived it.

 

   “It was just as well that hunt wasn’t too far away. We only just got back to the bunker and got you into bed then Cas just flapped off, and then I went out and there he was, lying on the couch looking all pale and saying he was ‘just going to lie down for five minutes’.”

 

   It had been a horrible journey despite being only a few hours long, with Cas sat in the back with Sam’s head in his lap and his glowing hands pressed to Sam’s forehead and chest. Dean’s eyes couldn’t help flicking into the rear view mirror every few seconds, watching the bags under Cas’ eyes grow deeper and worrying if his brother was going to make it until the morning.

 

   Sam’s forehead wrinkles were the depth of the Mariana trench. “Aren’t you worried about him? Y’know, how he’s an angel again and not meant to be sleeping?”

 

   Dean grunted. “Yeah Sammy, I am a bit. But on the other hand him taking a nap was sort of overshadowed by you going Chernobyl, so, you know. Worried is relative.”

 

   He tacked on what he hoped was his usual convincing grin, but his eyes were still searching Sam’s face for signs of pain. He didn’t look bad; in fact, he looked remarkably good for someone who had exploded a few hours ago. Better than Cas had, and probably better than him. Not even the ever-present bags under his eyes were there any more. He looked almost… unnaturally healthy.

 

   “So, how’re you feeling?”

 

   “Not bad, considering I was being carved up by witches like a prime piece of meat for a dark magic ritual. Although…”

 

   “What? Does it hurt?”

 

   Sam frowned, considering. “Not really, I’ve just got a headache. My chest hurts a bit and… This is going to sound weird, but it feels like my skin is trying to crawl off me.”

 

   Sam stopped talking when he heard footsteps approaching in the corridor outside, and then smiled at Cas as he entered sporting a wild case of bed head, his hair flattened on one side and his tie tilting drunkenly.

 

   “It’s good to see you awake, Sam.” Cas said sincerely. His blue eyes had locked unnervingly onto Sam’s hazel ones, and he was giving him the kind of penetrating stare that he usually reserved for Dean (Dean mentally swatted at the ridiculous needle of jealousy pricking him). Cas was frowning slightly, like he was trying to solve a particularly difficult crossword puzzle. Sam shifted a little under the intense attention.

 

   “Uh, thanks for getting me out of that mess Cas. I heard you overdid it a bit. Are you okay?”

 

   Cas blinked twice and seemed to shake himself, dragging his eyes away from Sam. He kept glancing at him warily though, as though something was unnerving him.

 

   “Yes, I am fine. It was a major healing, that’s all. Nothing’s wrong.”

 

   Dean crossed his arms over his chest, his bullshit-o’meter pinging. “Oh yeah, Cas, everything’s peachy. That’s why you’re staring at Sam like you can drill holes into his head. And while we’re on the subject, care to explain what the little fireworks show back in Hansel and Gretel’s candy house was about?”

 

   Cas flicked his eyes to Dean and deflated slightly. Sam shot him a sideways glance.

 

   “Dean…”

 

   “As I’m sure you have guessed, that tree contained a fallen angel’s Grace. Or maybe not,” Cas sighed as he took in the shocked expressions on the brothers’ faces.

 

   “I don’t even know how they managed to extract it from the tree. Usually only the fallen angel themselves can retrieve it. The one who handled it would have had to consume some substance to allow them to withstand the energy feedback. I would assume that the chisel and the flask were warded but obviously we can’t see the exact nature of the wards, which is a pity. The marks-”

 

   “Wait, wait,” Dean spluttered, “Are you saying that Sam had some angel’s Grace poured into him by some witches on magic mushrooms?”

 

   “Well, yes, sort of. Frankly I’m quite surprised that you haven’t exploded or died from the energy feedback.” Cas glanced at Sam apologetically. “No human should have been able to survive that much energy input, but for some reason you seem to be fine.”

 

   “Well can you get it out?” Dean’s voice was sharp and urgent.

 

   “Not without knowing where it is and if it is attached to Sam. These symbols here and here,” Cas pointed at Sam’s chest, his finger hovering an inch above the slightly raised scars, “Are about mind control. It looks as though they thought they might be able to control you once they put the grace inside you, but they vastly underestimated both the power of the grace and the strength of your will. You did defeat Lucifer with nothing but your mind, after all. But these symbols,” He added, pointing to the small interlocking cluster over his heart and trailing across his collar bone, “Are something else. They are not something I have ever seen in real life before, although I had heard of them. They were designed to bind your soul to the grace, which without an angelic consciousness attached should have burnt your soul out and left you as an empty vessel filled with energy that could be used as a power source. I’m not sure on what they were planning to do after that, but the phrase ‘world domination’ seems likely.”

 

   The brothers gaped at him.

 

   “Although,” he added thoughtfully, “It does seem like a particularly stupid plan, given the explosive outcome. Maybe they got the runes wrong?” He mused.

 

   “Anyway, how come Sam hasn’t been turned into a soul briquette?” Dean interrupted.

 

    “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Cas stared deep into Sam’s eyes again and he squirmed.

 

   After an awkward minute, Cas sat up straight and then leaned forward until he was squinting right into Sam’s face. Sam flinched back slightly, but Cas was already straightening up, a look of utter disbelief clear on his features for a second before he plastered it over with his trademark blank expression.

 

   “What? What is it?” Dean demanded, impatient.

 

   “I… I didn’t think that was possible…” Cas muttered, almost under his breath. Dean thought he might explode if he didn’t get answers in the next five seconds.

 

   “Sam’s soul has managed to absorb the Grace. Well, not all of it. It is sort of… wrapped around it at the minute, it hasn’t finished processing it. A normal soul would be killed by that amount of energy.”

 

   “So how am I still alive?”

 

   “Normally, Grace energy and souls… do not mix. Angels do not, cannot have souls. The soul would normally be destroyed, the energy influx would be toxic, but yours appears to already have the… machinery to process it if you will, to turn it into something your soul can store safely and use.”

 

   Sam’s face announced that he had a bad feeling about where this was going. “What do you mean, machinery?”

 

   “You know about how you were fed demon blood as a baby?”

 

   “Vividly,” Sam commented dryly.

 

   “Wait, are you saying that this Grace is like the demon blood!?” Dean snapped, panic rising suddenly in his throat, “Get that freaky shit out of him! What if it screws him up? Sammy, you are _not_ getting hooked on Grace!”

 

   “Dean,” Cas looked at him with his patented _Father give me patience humans are so stupid_ expression. “Do you really think I would just let Sam lie there if the Grace was taking Sam over like the demon blood did? The reason that Sam gained powers from the demon blood was that it contained a specific type of energy, a similar type of energy to the Grace, which fuelled his powers and made them stronger. However, the energy in the demon blood was tainted. That darkness was what affected Sam, rather than the energy itself.”

 

   Dean grunted and nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed by his outburst. Cas nodded and continued. “Even the relatively small amount of power in demon blood should kill a human. For the majority of people it is toxic in anything more than tiny quantities, with the exception of certain vessels such as yourselves. On top of that, Sam received the first dose when very young, so his soul adapted and built its own way to house the extra energy. The extra capacity is helping him to cope with the influx of energy from the Grace.”

 

   Dean watched as Sam shuddered in horror and crossed his arms over his scarred chest. His voice came out small and resigned.

 

   “I thought it was all gone what with the trials. I should have known it wasn’t over.”

 

   Cas laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. “You are free from the demon blood, Sam. Your soul is entirely your own. All it means is that you contain some… abandoned machinery, a part of you which you would not normally use. Which has apparently been reactivated, and is currently preventing you from being burnt out by the Grace, so at the moment it’s probably a good thing.”

 

   “So, what should we do? Can we get it out?” interrupted Dean.

 

   “Yeah, you managed to get the Grace out that was in me before,” Sam put in, but Cas shook his head.

 

   “I’m sorry Sam, but that was a much smaller piece, and it was not bound to your soul, just residing in your body like angels do in a normal possession. This Grace is bound directly to your soul. It is an entirely different situation. I might be able to extract it, with enough time and study, but it might damage your soul irreparably. It is attached to you now and you have already absorbed part of it, so to pull it out would rip you apart.”

 

   “So what? We just sit here, pretend everything’s fine? We don’t even know what it’s doing to him! What if it’s killing him?”

 

   Cas shrugged, looking grim. “There’s not much I can do at the moment. I will stay and help you to research, but I doubt that the Men of Letters will have anything that we don’t know already.”

 

   Sam looked as though he was considering something. “Do we know whose it was? If we can find them, they might have better luck at extracting it from me.”

 

   Cas looked thoughtful, then placed a palm on Sam’s chest again and closed his eyes, a slight blue glow starting up behind the lids. Dean shifted his feet, glancing between them. There was so much about this situation that was unknown, it made him uneasy. What was this going to do to his brother? Because if there was one thing they could always count on, it was that the Winchester luck would hold.

 

   Cas frowned more than usual and raised his hand. “I can’t tell whose Grace this was before they fell. It seems to be damaged, suggesting that it was removed by force. There also appear to be pieces missing. It is almost as though someone ripped it out.” Cas looked slightly ill, and Dean remembered that Metatron had done the same to him.

 

   “It is a pity that I can’t identify it. I doubt that the owner would have any more luck extracting it than us, but Grace does tend to take on some of its owner’s personality, so I might have been able to tell if the grace will try to fight the energy exchange.”

 

   Dean groaned. “Knowing our luck, it’s probably one of the dick angels.”

 

   Sam looked like he was thinking. “So if the Grace is like a giant battery, what’s it trying to do? Charge me up so the light comes on?”

 

   Cas nodded. “Essentially, yes. Only more like a giant battery, trying to charge your much smaller batteries until the light comes on.”

 

   “Only we have to hope that Sam’s batteries don’t get too charged and set the whole thing on fire and blow the bulb and make the Grace battery explode,” Dean carried on the ridiculous metaphor. “So it’s just as well that Sam has a whole load of rechargeable batteries that he can charge as well.” Cas was still nodding along seriously, but Dean could see a small grin curling the corner of Sam’s lips.

 

   Cas laid a hand on Sam’s forehead again and frowned. “We should let Sam rest. His body needs time to recover from the damage caused by absorbing the Grace, and to heal from the ritual. There was a lot of dark magic in that warehouse.”

 

   “But I don’t feel tired at all,” Sam objected, trying to rise from the bed, but Dean pushed him back down with a hand on his shoulder.

 

   “Yeah, well, I saw you explode today, so we’re not taking any chances. Suck it up and go to sleep.”

 

   Sam scowled at him but lay back with a sigh and closed his eyes. Dean followed Cas out into the hallway, flicking the light off as he left and closing the door. They stared at each other for a second. Now that Dean was looking closely, he could see that Cas _still_ seemed more tired than usual despite the nap, the bags under his eyes more prominent.

 

   “You alright, Cas?” He asked quietly, “What’s going on? You aren’t meant to be sleeping. Don’t think I didn’t notice that coma you went into earlier.”

 

   Cas sighed. “Yes, it’s just that my Grace is not as powerful as it used to be, and healing Sam took a lot of energy. That ritual, and the energy released when his soul bound to the Grace, did cause a lot of damage to his body. His heart in particular was weakened.”

 

   “If he’s got Grace inside him, wouldn’t that heal him?”

 

   “Not if he can’t access it and doesn’t know how to use it.” Cas started walking back towards the kitchen and Dean followed. “At the moment, Sam’s soul is still very much separate from the Grace, connected by only a tiny thread of energy. He can’t control it or perform any functions with it.”

 

   “Like healing, or smiting or time travel.”

 

   Cas inclined his head in agreement. “Indeed. However, I do not know how long this will last. As he absorbs more of the energy, as the bond grows stronger, they may begin to affect each other and amalgamate, integrate into each other. Eventually he may even be able to use the Grace, if it does not kill him before that.”

 

   “Weird. So Sam could become a sort of half angel? Like a Nephilim?”

 

   Cas stood for a second staring off into the distance with his brow furrowed, then levelled an intense look at Dean. “No. Nephilim are born, not made. This has never happened in all of heavens records. To be honest, I cannot believe that Sam is alive. I had no idea that any of this was possible. Souls and Grace cannot coexist, it should have ripped him apart. Even vessels, even archangel vessels, should not be able to endure that level of energy exposure. I cannot understand it.” His brow furrowed, “Not that I am not grateful that Sam is alive, but this coincidence? That the one human those witches chose to sacrifice is probably the only one in the history of existence who could have a chance of surviving the progress? Something does not feel right.”

 

   Dean put a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Well, we have pulled off some unlikely wins before. Are you sure we weren’t just lucky, just this once?”

 

   Cas sighed again. “We aren’t out of the woods yet, Dean. We have no idea what will happen to him. I hope he can survive this.”

 

   Dean nodded grimly. “Me too, Cas. Me too.”

 

 

  


	3. For Continued Survival, Select Option Three

   The room was cold and dark, but Sam’s breath burned in his chest, dragging the cloying stink of wet rot into the bottom of his lungs.

 

   There was an indistinct shadow of a figure in front of him and most of the room was blurred beyond comprehension, but his eyes drunkenly picked out other details in blinding, nauseating clarity; motes of dust orbited in a sharp beam of light coming through the slats on the windows, the glint of a silver blade drawn out of clothing.

 

   A flash of movement and Sam felt a sharp impact on his chest and the cold sting that meant his body hadn’t realised how badly injured it was yet. His eyes drifted down and a blot of colour bloomed in the monochrome world. The light from the window was splashed across his shirt, sparkling off the hilt and painting the spreading mark an unnatural shade of red. It was too bright and rich to be real, too intense but his eyes couldn’t seem to let it go.

 

   He tried to drag in a breath but there was bubbling lava in his lungs and salty iron on his tongue. There was light in his chest blotting out the room and it was bursting, blinding…

 

   Sam sat bolt upright in bed, his hand clenched painfully on the hilt of his knife. The cold sweat dripped into his eyes before he rubbed it away and tried to calm his aching heart from beating through his ribs.

 

   He swung out of bed and padded into the kitchen, wincing a little at the cold floor under his bare feet, and made a beeline for the coffee maker. He stared at it sightlessly as it gurgled. It was by no means the first time that he had woken up after a strange dream; in fact, nightmares were pretty much a given after the last few years. But the dream had been unusually vivid and wasn’t fading now that he was awake, if anything the memory of it seemed to be getting stronger. It reminded him most of the visions he used to get even before the demon blood, while his psychic abilities were developing. The thought was not encouraging.

 

   He realised that the coffee had been ready for several minutes and he hadn’t noticed. Grabbing himself a cup, he sat down at the table and pulled across an already open book. Cas must have been researching the symbols carved into his chest.

 

   He was so engrossed in a particularly difficult translation of some Celtic runes that he didn’t notice Dean shuffle in and grab himself a mug, and didn’t bother looking up as he sat himself at the end of the table opposite him.

 

   “Morning.”

 

   Dean grunted, but Sam had long since learned that Dean was about as responsive as a member of the undead before his first coffee. Unless he was attacked by actual members of the undead, always a possibility in their line of work.

 

   Sam frowned and took another gulp of coffee, trying to wash away the fuzzy haze in his mind. That was strange. He had been fine a second ago, too alert after such a rude awakening.

  

   “Anyway, I’ve been looking at these runes and get this, some were in Enochian but _these_ were cannibalised and adapted from some sort of medieval soul binding spell or something. Don’t suppose you know if Cas…”

 

   Sam’s voice trailed off as he looked up at Dean. He blinked several times, but no, it wasn’t a hallucination brought on by too little sleep and too much coffee. Dean was sort of… glowing. As though he was being lit from within by a soft illumination. The light shone through his eyes and his mouth and beamed strongly from between his ribs. As well as that, there was a sort of crackling static coming from Dean’s direction. He could almost hear words in it, as though he was picking up radio signals but wasn’t tuned to the right channel. It seemed to resonate through his teeth and zing across his tongue like the sound was tangible.

  

   “Dude, what? Have I got something on my face?”

 

   Dean’s grumpy morning voice cut through Sam’s confusion and he realised that he had been staring at him with his head tilted like he had seen Cas doing so many times, trying to hear the static better. Dean tried unsuccessfully to flatten his pillow hair as he frowned down at his chest to see what Sam was staring at.

 

   “You… You’re glowing, Dean. And can you hear that buzzing?”

 

   “What? I’m not glowing. What’re you talking about?”

 

   Dean stared harder at his chest, which was still resolutely glowing to Sam’s eyes.

 

   “Sorry Dean, you still look like someone stuck a lightbulb under your shirt.”

 

   Dean eyed Sam suspiciously and took a sip from his mug, grimacing slightly at the brown liquid. Almost immediately the static resolved itself into words and the fuzzy haze in his brain transformed into a twisting, curling sensation that he somehow knew without being told was disgust.

 

   _Man, this coffee is nasty. What did he brew it with, soy sauce? Earwax?_

   “No, actually.” Sam blurted, “It’s that cheaper brand you made me get after you stopped me buying the organic stuff because it was too expensive.”

 

   Dean’s thoughts actually stopped for a minute and Sam winced as he felt his shock and confusion radiate out in little waves, making the hair in his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. Dean looked up and stared at Sam for a long moment, then glanced down at his chest as if to check that he still couldn’t see anything before turning and hollering into the depths of the bunker.

 

   “CAS! Get in here!”

 

.o0o.

 

   “Sorry Sam, I think that it’s probably the effects of the Grace energy.”

 

   Cas’ soulful eyes gazed down at him where he lay on the couch after an angelic examination. Dean was leaning on a book case on the other side of the room after they had discovered that Sam’s mind reading abilities only had a range of about three meters and seemed to have no effect on Cas. Apparently the emotion sensing had a slightly larger range, because he could feel Dean’s worry bouncing off his skin and through his brain like slightly bitter hailstones.

 

   “I believe that you are seeing a small impression of Dean’s soul, as well as some psychic thought reading abilities. How are you sensing thoughts? Can you detect emotions as well?”

 

   “I could sort of hear the thoughts, but almost feel them as well? Like I was brushing an electric currant.” Sam stopped for a moment, trying to find words. “I can sense emotions as well, mostly like something’s touching me, but not quite. You know how really loud music kind of resonates through your bones? Like that. But also in my mind. And sometimes, I can kind of taste it. I can’t really explain it.”

 

   Despite what Sam thought was a very poor description of the new sensations, Cas nodded his head as though he knew exactly what he was talking about. “Unfortunately, the effects will probably get worse as your soul continues to convert the Grace. Have you been having any other symptoms?”

 

   “Erm, not really…” Sam didn’t particularly want to admit to having a maybe prophetic nightmare, because for all he knew it hadn’t been an actual vision at all. If it had happened during the day he would have known, but some of his nightmares after hell had been pretty vivid hadn’t they? It wasn’t even his first time of being stabbed in the chest. Yeah, that could have been what it was.  

 

   “Well good,” Cas said evenly, “Because I’m not sure what the end point will be.”

 

   “End point? What end point?” Dean barked, suddenly alert.

 

   “I don’t know. A human soul has never been imbibed with this much energy before, so I cannot predict the results. Although I do have several likely theories.”

 

   “Go on,” Sam said warily, his fingers tapping against his legs. Dean’s worry pattered against his shoulders and fed into his own.

 

   Castiel debated for a second, head on one side.

 

   “As you absorb more energy, your soul could begin to recognise the Grace as a foreign presence and begin to reject it, similarly to your immune system fighting an infection. Unfortunately, since you have already absorbed a lot of energy, rejecting it would cause your soul to implode. Thankfully, I think that option is very unlikely. If it was going to happen, it probably would have done at the start rather than waiting until now.

 

   “The second option is that your soul absorbs more energy than it is capable of holding and bursts, releasing all of the energy from both your soul and the grace with the power of around twenty nuclear bombs, destroying a good proportion of the state and sending up an ash cloud which would cause famine in the northern hemisphere for at least the next five years.”

 

   Sam absently noticed Dean turning slowly paler and tried to ignore the strengthening prickling sensation and the metallic taste on his tongue. Cas was looking distractedly at the empty coffee cup on the table and didn’t seem to notice their growing anxiety.

 

   “There is a third option, that your soul reaches its maximum energy charge and then manages to form an equilibrium with the Grace. The way your soul and the Grace are joined, Sam, means that the energy transfer could be two way. Human souls produce their own energy all the time, and the transfer would amplify the energy, so they would be self-sufficient just trading energy between them. I have no idea what such large energy levels would do to you, but I doubt it would kill you as long as either your or the Grace’s maximum energy levels were not exceeded. Luckily, I think that this is the most likely option; even without being attached to an angel’s consciousness, Grace is semi-sentient and would probably not try to harm you. It will probably just charge to maximum capacity and then stabilise the energy loop.”

 

   “I go for option three. Definitely option three.” Sam heard Dean say in a slightly shaky voice. Cas seemed to finally realise how nervous his audience was and gave Sam a small grimace of apology.

 

   “What are my maximum energy levels, Cas?”

 

   Castiel looked at him and tilted his head, inspecting him as though the answer was written upside down in the runes on his chest. Which maybe it was.

 

   “Given that you were made to house one of the archangels, Sam, your energy tolerance levels are probably abnormally high for a human. I can only guess, but I would estimate that you have absorbed maybe a hundredth of your potential energy capacity.”

 

   “A _hundredth?_ ”

 

   Sam was privately horrified; if he only had a hundredth of the energy he was capable of holding and he was already displaying his powers from the good old demon blood days as well as some freaky new power cards to add to the deck, what would he be like if he was fully charged? Would there be anything human left in him at all? And that was if he could achieve equilibrium without his soul getting ripped to shreds in the process. He groaned and dropped his face into his hands as his thoughts rattled in his skull.

 

   “Alright Sam, calm down.”

 

   Sam opened his eyes and looked up at Dean and Castiel, who were staring at him with concern and a little fear for Dean’s part. He could feel Dean freaking out, his panic was pounding against him and he recoiled into the cushions of the couch to try and escape it. The rattling intensified. It felt as though his heart was trying to beat through his ribs. This was the demonic powers all over again, he would lose his brother…

 

   “Sam, come on, you’re going to be fine.”

 

   _Sammy Sammy Samsamsamsam-_

 

   Dean stepped forwards and knelt in front of him. Now that he was closer Sam could almost physically feel the desperation coming off him in waves, could taste Dean’s fear and worry bitter on his tongue, but realised that it was _for_ him rather than focused on him. Sam took several deep, shaky breaths and tried to slow his heart rate, slightly embarrassed by his panicked reaction. Slowly he forced his hands relaxed against the arms of the couch. Then he happened to glance to the side.

 

   The empty coffee mug was still rattling slightly against the wood. As soon as he looked at it, it stopped, but the ceramic rattling noise suddenly made sense. Sam sighed. Telekinesis- check. They all stared at it in grim silence for a second, then Cas gently picked it up.

 

   “I think you both need a cup of tea.”

 

   And with that he walked off towards the kitchen, coat swishing behind him. Sam and Dean watched him go in surprise and Dean chuckled quietly before sliding onto the couch next to him, a wisp of amusement curling off him and the worry easing slightly.

 

   “What do you know? He’s been getting better with this sort of stuff lately, but I don’t know where he got ‘make tea for traumatised people’ from. Maybe he’s finally figured out google.”

 

   Dean turned back to him, concern creasing his forehead again and pattering lightly against Sam’s skin.

 

   “How are you feeling?”

 

   “Look, Dean, don’t worry about me going off the rails again. I swear, it’s not intentional, we know what’s happening this time, I’ll get better at controlling it-”

 

   “Hey hey hey, that’s not what I meant.”

 

   The concern in Dean’s face deepened. He seemed to choke on the words for a moment, taking a deep breath before he could get them out.

 

   “Listen… Sam, I don’t really care that your powers are back. I mean, yeah, I was kind of a dick about them the first time, but back then we didn’t know anything about them. It was definitely different, man, you were getting them from drinking demon blood, for God’s sake. There was never going to be anything good coming out of that.” Sam grimaced.

 

   “But this time, you’re right, we know what’s causing them and this time it’s not exactly evil, according to Cas it’s just energy, even if it did belong to some assbag angel at some point. It’s not exactly the strangest thing to have happened to us anymore, if we survived the apocalypse this shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, I’d take a few freaky powers any day over you going nuclear and taking out half the state, but you need to tell us about it, man. I… I want to help this time. You know, after… the last time this happened. I won’t make that mistake again.”

 

   Apparently Dean had now reached his chick flick moments quota for the day, because he clammed his mouth shut and stared at the ground, scratching his nose and radiating embarrassment. Sam grinned at him in delighted surprise, relief lifting a weight from his chest. Dean cleared his throat.

 

   “Anyway, what does it look like, my soul? Always kind of wanted to know, never really got around to asking Cas. I guess after all the shit that’s happened over the last couple of years it’s probably all black and ragged, yeah?”

 

   “Well I can’t really see that much of it, but you’re glowing like you’ve got the sun stuffed down your shirt. In fact, it looks brighter now than it did this morning. Might be because you’re actually awake now. Or maybe I can just see it better.”

 

   “Really?”

 

   Dean was trying to keep the surprised-but-pleased expression off his face but the taste similar to honey on Sam’s tongue gave him away. “What about yours? Can you see your own soul?”

 

   Sam glanced down at his shirt, and sure enough there was a feint glow coming through the fabric. It was different from Dean’s, the light not as bright and piercing, a little softer but still glowing strongly from between his ribs. It was surprising; he wouldn’t have thought there would be anything left of it by this point.

 

   “Yeah, I can see it. Kind of.”

 

   Cas chose that moment to emerge from the kitchen holding two steaming mugs of tea, setting them down on the coffee table with a solemnity what suggested he was performing an ancient ritual rather than a human habit. Dean snorted and Sam wondered where he had found the tea bags. Maybe the Men of Letters had left some behind? They both thanked him and took their mugs, blowing on the hot liquid. All three of them were quiet for a second.

 

   “Hey, Sam, can you see Cas? You know, his true form?”

 

   Dean was staring at Cas over the rim of his mug as if he might develop x-ray vision if he looked hard enough. Cas stared right back. Sam resisted an eye roll with difficulty. Cas had known perfectly well for years how staring unnerved humans, but apparently ingrained habits died hard when it came to Dean. Dean staring right back at him didn’t help he supposed. It was actually strangely reassuring to see them in a good old fashioned staring match, after everything that had happened in the past few years.

 

   Sam squinted at Castiel.

 

   “Not really. But he’s sort of… glowing at the edges.” Cas glanced at him then back to Dean, who looked as though he was trying to drill holes in him. And the aura around him shifted subtly.

 

   “Hey, hang on a second. I’m definitely seeing something. Colours,” Sam muttered, remembering what the psychic they had encountered had said. And true to his word, instead of the linear sensation of an electric currant, Castiel’s thoughts pressed against his mind as colours, so different and alien compared to Dean’s. The colours mixed and flowed together, and the bright forest green produced by looking at Dean faded into a burnished amber-orange which he knew instinctively referred to him. A curious lilac wound around the orange as Cas tilted his head to the side and squinted, and Sam realised that he was trying to catch his thoughts more clearly. The lilac morphed into a curl of yellow as his eyes widened in surprise.

 

   “You can see my thoughts, Sam. I can see them reflected in your mind.”

 

   “Yeah,” Sam breathed, enthralled. He felt a sharp jab in his brain, like someone had poked him with a finger. He turned around to face Dean and had to hold in a smirk as he saw him trying to hide his jealousy under a scowl. He decided to change the subject before Dean exploded with envy.

 

   “Cas, if I do manage to see you, the actual you, won’t it burn out my eyeballs?”

 

   “I think that is very unlikely, since it is Grace energy that you are absorbing. However, I also find it very unlikely that you will be able to see my true form, unless you absorb an incredibly large amount of energy, more than is held in the piece of Grace inside you. If that ever happened you would be more angelic than human by then anyway so you wouldn’t come to any harm.”

 

   Sam nodded. He was sort of disappointed. To be the first human to get a good look at an angel in its true form without having his eyes burnt out of his skull would have been amazing; that would have been something to add to the Men of Letters’ collection…

 

.o0o.

 

   By the end of the day, Sam could see the light of Dean’s soul precede him whenever he walked into the library. Castiel checked on his soul every other hour, and now Sam could see now where his soul rose up to just under his skin whenever Cas put his hand to his chest, the harsh blue light of Grace swirling under his palm. If he concentrated, he could feel a blip of foreign energy pressing very lightly on the edges of his soul.

 

   The powers were undoubtedly getting stronger almost exponentially quickly. When he accidentally knocked his sixth cup of coffee off the table, without thinking he caught it without his hands, including the coffee inside, which coalesced into a large bubble like a liquid in space. He managed to scoop most of it back into the mug before he lost his concentration and the rest slopped onto the floor.

 

   The research proved just as useless and frustrating as Castiel had predicted. Sam could feel Dean’s worry for him but he was concealing it well, the only thing giving him away externally was the fact that he was actually helping with the research instead of trying to sneak off to his room to watch Casa Erotica on his new laptop or whatever else he usually did when Sam asked him to help.

 

   They also looked for any more information on the witches, as well as looking deep into the past of the town where they had been staying, but there were no overly strange occurrences in the last hundred years. The lead was dead and they gave up eventually.

 

   Sam felt strangely energised all evening, but he blamed it on the coffee rather than admit to himself that it was another symptom. Dean made him stop researching at midnight and go to bed, insisting that he try to rest, but was three in the morning before he was remotely tired. His thoughts swam around the inside of his head like darting fish as he stared at the ceiling, feeling his brother’s thoughts slowly die down to a low buzz as he fell asleep along the corridor, unimpeded by the walls and doors. His range was getting larger by the hour.

 

   His last thought, before he dropped off the edge into sleep, was to wonder how much worse it would be in the morning.

 

     


	4. Totally Not Porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not an overly plotty one, just some drabbles in the timeline. Enjoy!

   Despite only falling as asleep at three in the morning, Sam woke at six. As a hunter he was used to surviving on a minimum number of hours, but what was stranger than the early hour was that he felt fully rested, as though he had slept for nine hours rather than three.

 

   He decided not to worry about it too much as he sat at the table with a cup of coffee he didn’t really need. He had been for a four mile run around the bunker but even that hadn’t taken the edge off the restless energy under his skin. He hadn’t even broken into a sweat.

 

   The world looked noticeably sharper this morning, the colours brighter, more vibrant. He mentally ran through his symptoms again and decided that the telekinesis was the most worrying. He had only been up for an hour and already he had reached for things three times only to have them zoom into his hands of their own accord. He was just glad that he hadn’t had another prophetic vision. His new and improved perception was making his head ache enough as it was.

 

   By the time that he felt Dean’s mind crackle fully awake at nine, he had read through two of the remaining books on the likely pile he had picked out for research and was making notes from a third. He saw the glow of Dean’s soul even with his eyes still on the page and greeted him without looking up as he sat down with a cavernous yawn, still in one of the grey robes pilfered from the wardrobe.

 

   “Morning. How long have you been up? Had breakfast yet?”

 

   Sam shrugged, not looking up. “Nah. Not really hungry.”

 

   Dean looked at him with his forehead creased for a second, then got up to walk to the kitchen. _Hope there’s something in the cupboard apart from that disgusting shredded cardboard stuff he likes._

 

   Sam found himself grinning. “Hey! That stuff is really good for you, it’s full of fibre, unlike your pie-and-burgers diet.”

 

_Yeah, enough fibre to make sure you don’t poop for the rest of eternity._

   “I heard that.”

 

   Sam felt the sudden urge to retaliate. Smirking, he closed his eyes and concentrated, reaching out with invisible, intangible fingers to place a good scoop of chilli powder in Dean’s over sweetened cereal.

 

 Seconds later he was rewarded with a roar and the sound of gagging, followed by a litany of curses. Sam grinned, ignoring Dean’s mutinous thoughts. He settled down again with the book, letting the static wash over him like water.

 

…… …… …… …… ……

 

   Dean had, fairly recently, acquired his own laptop. Sam had been on his ass about it for years, and he had to admit that he preferred the lack of bitching whenever he got viruses from the more… interesting sites he visited.

 

   Another advantage was that there was no longer any need to clear the internet history or use an incognito tab to avoid any sites which might result in embarrassing pop up ads the next time Sam used it to look up Atlantic sea monsters or whatever.

 

   He had actually been helping to research all morning, and all of the previous two days ever since Cas’ little prophesy of doom, and they were still no closer to working out how to get the Grace out of his little brother. Even a short prank war hadn’t lifted the tedium. There was nothing like the mind numbing boredom of research to kill the fear of whatever you were facing, and Cas had said that Sam’s power accumulation was slowing down. The only thing that Dean had noticed was that he occasionally caught Sam practicing levitating books and coffee cups, or passing the salt before he asked for it. He found that he really didn’t mind as long as he wasn’t draining demons to get it. He snorted. What had he been getting so worked up over the first time? To be honest, his little brother looked better rested than Dean had ever seen him, so he must be getting a good amount of sleep even if Dean hadn’t caught him at it, and the telekinesis and mind reading looked like they could be quite useful on a hunt.

 

   They had had no breakthroughs all day. As far as Dean could see, there was nothing online, and Sam and Cas were hogging the books detailing anything remotely interesting about souls or angelic Grace, so as it was now four in the afternoon and Sam didn’t seem to be in immediate danger of exploding, Dean figured he deserved a break.

 

   After surreptitiously glancing around (Sam at the other end of the library, too far for the mind reading, Cas nowhere to be seen, so far so good), he opened a new tab. The burgundy borders and boxes of summaries of his new favourite website popped up. Yeah, Sam was totally right, he could so get back into reading more fiction for pleasure, especially if it featured the continued exploits of the staff of Seattle Mercy Hospital. There were some fucking talented people out there- Dean hadn’t thought that reading about Dr Sexy and his neurotic but beautiful med student getting together in the supplies cupboard would be hot, but damn, had he been proven wrong.

 

   It wasn’t porn if it was written, right? Porn was Busty Asian Beauties or Casa Erotica. This was… something else. Yeah.

 

   He held his tongue between his teeth, scrolling down the selection. Some of the summaries alone were almost enough to make even him blush. He was fairly sure that position was impossible in practice, they’d have to break every bone in their body. Also that orgies in sterile operating theatres were probably unsanitary. Why were there so many with Dr Sexy and the attractive but angsty (and very male) ER nurse? Not that he was into that. Oh no. He was just curious. Couldn’t hurt to have a look. And what were all the funny symbols?

 

   Only one way to find out.

 

   Clicking through to the page with a quiet snort (of course he was fine to view the friggin’ content) Dean settled back in his chair to read.

 

   Oh, it was a good one. A nice piece of backstory first, good characterisation. Dr Sexy and the attractive but stubborn nurse were stuck together in a broken elevator, classic, and the sexual tension was climbing by the second. Suddenly, the dam broke and they couldn’t contain themselves any longer. They leapt on each other, tearing off clothing, smashing their mouths together in a frenzy of-

 

   “Jesus, Dean! If you’re going to read porn, at least have the decency to do it in your fucking room!”

 

   His head whipped up, a blush already spreading treacherously across his face. Sam was scowling at him down the table, bitchface #25 turned up to 110%. Even his ears had turned scarlet, and Dean felt his own face heating as well.

 

   “It’s not porn if it’s written! And anyway, if you don’t want to hear it, stop listening in, bitch.”

 

   Sam snorted with amusement, face still creased with disgust.

 

   “Porn can be written, jerk! And anyway, I wasn’t trying to listen in, in fact I was actively trying not to, your thoughts were just really fucking loud. Like someone was shouting Fifty Shades of Grey into my ear. My inner eyes are permanently scarred.”

 

   He spluttered, mortification still burning his face, but tried to play it cool. How much had he heard? Could he still hear him? Hang on, how _had_ he heard him? He had thought he was well out of the X-men zone.

 

   “Wait, so you can eavesdrop on my thoughts from there now? I thought you had to concentrate to get my emotions, never mind listening in across the room!”

 

   Suddenly Sam looked a little edgy. Dean felt his eyes narrowing.

 

   “How long has it been getting worse, Sam? Jesus, I thought you were going to tell us! We need to know how fast this thing is happening!”

 

   Sam looked even more uncomfortable. “I didn’t do it on purpose, Dean, it’s just…I don’t know, my range hasn’t been getting bigger as fast as it did at first, and it’s been happening gradually. Usually I don’t even notice it any more, I just kind of tune it out, but you were just thinking loudly and that… _particular_ emotion turns out to be really carrying and…” He waved his hand vaguely, still looking embarrassed. Well, that made two of them.

 

   “Anything else you want to tell me?”

 

   “Ummm…”

 

   Dean felt the impatience itch under his skin and Sam looked at him in annoyance as he thought hard at him to _spit it out._

 

   “Yeah, okay, fine. I’ve only been getting two or three hours of sleep a night and only need to eat once a day. Happy now?”

 

   Dean swallowed the nervous lump in his throat as he looked at his sulking brother, then thought about it and frowned. “Hang on. I know you’ve been eating more than one meal a day, you ate lunch and dinner with me yesterday.”

 

   Sam sighed like he was tired of explaining himself. “Yeah, Dean, just because I _want_ to eat doesn’t mean I _need_ to.” He grinned suddenly. “Kind of like how you don’t need a second slice of pie, you know?”

 

   Dean refused to feel guilty over extra pie helpings. “Yeah, well, tell me next time you start doing even more weird shit, okay? Weirder than usual, I mean.”

 

   “I will if it’s important,” Sam muttered mutinously, turning back to the book open in front of him.

 

…… …… …… …… ……

 

   Sam didn’t tell Dean about the dreams.

 

   Despite his diminished hours of sleep, he had had the stabbing dream again, exactly the same as the first time, the colours vivid in his mind for long after he got up.

 

   There were also others. Sam wasn’t sure if they counted, because unlike the first dream they were never clear, just snatches. After a while, he had concluded that they were memories left behind by the previous owner of the grace. After all, Cas had said that the Grace might still retain some of their character traits. He had told Sam that the loss of Grace usually did not entail the angel losing their memory, but he had also said that it had been removed by force. Maybe that meant that some of their memories had been ripped out as well by accident?

 

   He would wake up with a confused impression that he had wings, and the feeling that he should need to stretch extra limbs that weren’t there. Sometimes during the day he would get glimpses of the world from high above, or long-extinct creatures, but the thoughts would dart out of reach as soon as he tried to examine them further. There were others, images of bloody battles with monsters and confusion and pain that he didn’t particularly want to look at too closely. There were a few of a terrible, cold anger and hatred that he cringed away from- it reminded him too much of another angel.

 

   But the majority of the impressions were of loneliness; bitter, sad, aching loneliness.

 

    Sam had thought about telling Cas about the memories, but it seemed private and to go around sharing the memories with everyone just felt wrong. It wasn’t just pictures, it was thoughts and feelings. Thoughts and feelings that belonged to someone else and weren’t really his to share.

 

   Every foreign emotion was punctuated by a nasty throb from his growing headache, but he couldn’t be annoyed at the angel whose Grace was inside him; they hadn’t asked for it any more than he had, and it was now unlikely that they would ever get their Grace back. If anything through the memories, the tiny glimpses into the angel’s life, he felt a sort of comradeship with them. Whoever they were, they didn’t appear to be one of the ‘dick angels’ as Dean put it. Evidently they had been a warrior, a good one by the look of it. And Sam could relate to the loneliness; being a hunter was not a career path that encouraged making long term friends, not when people tended to keep dying. Especially around the Winchesters.

 

   He hoped that maybe, somewhere out there, the angel was still alive. Maybe, among humans, they wouldn’t be quite so lonely. Everyone deserved a second chance.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A dedication to my wonderful sister, who initially thought that because fanfiction was written, it didn't count as porn. RIP your innocence.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Don't Make Me Use My Mum Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good long one this time, almost like a little self-contained case except it's got some plotty bits in there as well.
> 
> Enjoy!

   Despite Dean’s insistence that Sam should rest and recover until they knew the outcome of the Grace situation, they were forcefully reminded that the world was still performing business as usual without them in the form of a phone call from Jody.

 

   “Can’t even take a week off,” Sam heard Dean grumble as he ended the call. Apparently, people were being found with mangled chests and their hearts removed just outside of Soux Falls, and Jody had felt the need to call in extra help after the body count began to climb. Everybody else they knew was either busy, off the grid or dead. Story of their lives.

 

   “You’d think people could deal with their own werewolves. Have you seen my spare silver bullets anywhere?” Dean’s voice came slightly muffled from where he was bent over rummaging inside a duffle.

 

   Sam knew better than to think that Dean’s grumbling was entirely genuine; over the last few days with nothing to do but continue the futile research and worry over Sam, he had started to become restless and on edge. He tried to hide it, but Sam could feel it constantly drumming against him and the way his eyes kept flicking up to the door leading outside was a big clue. Sam couldn’t blame him; he was beginning to feel claustrophobic himself in the musty air of the library. A simple, in-and-out case would do them both some good.

 

   They had the inevitable argument about whether Sam should come or not. Sam insisted that **Yes** , he was coming and Dean told him that **No** , he certainly was not. Cas informed them that he should be fine, he still had a lot of his energy capacity to go and if he was going to explode he would have done it already, and anyway it shouldn’t affect his ability to gank werewolves. When that argument bounced off Dean’s stubbornness without even making a dent, Sam went out to the Impala and refused to be removed from the passenger seat, even resorting to using his telekinesis to keep himself there until Dean gave up. Castiel had rolled his eyes at both of them from the doorway as though praying to his Father for patience before retreating inside to search the deep archives again for some small piece of information that he might have missed, even though by now it was fairly obvious that there was nothing to be found.

 

   Despite his reluctance to bring Sam, once they were on the road with music blasting through the speakers and the widows down to let in a breeze, Dean relaxed with a contented sigh. Sam laughed when he realised that Dean was mentally humming along to Taylor Swift complete with all the words despite pretending it was the first time he had heard the song, and in retaliation Dean put salt in his coffee the next time they stopped at a Gas-n’-sip.

 

   It was the first time that Sam had been out in public and around other people since absorbing the Grace, and even though he had gotten slightly used to the sensation of Dean’s and Cas’ thoughts and emotions washing over him constantly, it became immediately obvious that crowds were another matter. He caught snatches of other people’s conversations as they drove past in their cars, and when they stopped at a diner for lunch the din was almost overwhelming.

 

   “Are you coping?” Dean asked gruffly, watching Sam with his forehead creased as he tried to apply ketchup to his burger without looking, a dribble landing in his lap. Sam nodded, his head flicking back and forth between the other patrons with his eyes narrowed at the bombardment, trying to work out which thoughts and emotions came from which person.

 

   Dean snorted. “If you’re fine, then why is your salad floating?”

 

   Sam grimaced and set the salad back down on the table gently but didn’t reach for his fork.

 

   “It’s horrible, Dean. The number of people in here who are depressed. Like, this wave of sadness hit me as I walked through that door, and it’s so strong it’s actually making me feel ill. And apart from that, you wouldn’t believe how much time people spend thinking about sex. I mean, most of the time, for most people, there aren’t concrete thoughts, just emotions, but still. I feel like kind of a peeping tom, but I can’t block it out, it’s too strong.” He could feel his face begin to heat as a particularly racy set of thoughts came from the old couple opposite.

 

   Dean grinned around a mouthful of burger. “Really? Who is it?”

 

   Sam rolled his eyes but looked around. “Those two,” he pointed to a young couple by the window staring into each other’s eyes, “Are really giving off some strong vibes. Also the two lone guys at the bar, the barkeeper, the waitress in the back, that old couple. Like, all those teenagers sitting over there. Apart from that one,” He pointed to a girl sat with a book in front of her, gazing out of the window, “She’s perfectly happy. She’s thinking about her dog, and if she should pick up more pet food on the way home, and how nice a day it is. But seriously Dean, she’s like, the only one in here who’s just _happy._ ”

 

   Sam grimaced as he looked around. He should have realised that seeing other people’s unfiltered thoughts would not be a pleasant experience. As well as the increasingly raunchy stream of memories and fantasies between the old couple, he could feel the intense dislike a woman had for her so-called friends, the poisonous hatred of the whole world from the man at the end of the bar who was eyeing everybody. Even from here, he could feel a stream of unedited racism coming from someone outside, and some darker fantasies coming roughly from where the teenagers were seated.

 

   He paused on a pair of women by one of the windows. There was an odd blankness around them, an absence of sound, and although they had full plates in front of them they weren’t eating. A middle aged brunette with rather heavy features stared out of the window, while the woman with long, straightened blond hair stared blankly past her into the distance. As though she had felt his gaze she turned slightly and looked him in the eye, the silent bubble around her seeming to grow more intense.

 

   “Is that everything? Do you want your bill?” He snapped his attention away from the odd pair to their waitress and winced. Despite the sunny smile on her face, he had felt the pounding waves of depression and the stale taste on the back of his tongue coming from her when she had taken their order. Now that he was a little more numbed to the mental noise, he could make out her thoughts as well. Mostly, she was worried about her student loans, whether her ill mother was alright and if she would be able to pay the bills that month.

 

   He glanced quickly back at the table where the women had been sitting, but it was empty, not even a plate to show they had ever been there. To try and shift his uneasiness, he turned back to the waitress and gave her a bright smile. He felt her thoughts lift, ever so slightly.

 

   His thoughts about the strange women quickly slipped away from his grasp as Dean asked for the bill. Sam made sure to leave a particularly large tip in the hope that he could at least have made some difference to the woman’s state of mind. Dean gave him a weird glance but didn’t comment. It was worth it when he felt a brief leap of happiness as he walked out the door and he smiled as he walked back to the car. Suddenly knowing more about other people’s love lives than he ever wanted to didn’t seem like such a bad compromise after all.

 

.o0o.

 

   It was the early hours of the morning by the time they reached Jody’s house, so with a few whispered words they were directed towards the couch and where a mattress was set up on the floor of the living room before Jody went back to bed. After a brief round of rock-paper-scissors Sam collapsed onto the couch, leaving his quietly cursing brother to take the floor. A few minutes later he heard Dean’s snore start up, but Sam lay awake for a long time staring at the ceiling before drifting into sleep.

 

 

   Sam woke with a jolt from his uneasy rest knowing that someone was watching him.

 

   He sat bolt upright, ignoring his back and neck complaining about a night spent on uncomfortably lumpy cushions and surreptitiously pulling his knife from under the pillow, just in time to see the door swing shut again behind a swish of long, golden hair and a crackle of irritation.

 

   After sitting still for a second until his vertigo from sitting up so suddenly faded, he pushed himself to his feet and stretched, groaning this time as the pain in his spine registered. He checked his watch; two hours of sleep. Not bad for the last few nights- at least the amount of sleep he needed to get wasn’t decreasing any more.

 

   He stumbled into the kitchen, where Dean and Jody were already sitting, large mugs of steaming coffee pressed firmly between their hands.

 

   “I think I saw Claire this morning,” Sam said as Jody got up to pour him another mug. He could still feel her emotions from upstairs, a maelstrom of annoyance and confusion mixed with grudging gratefulness. Now that it was daylight and they were all fully awake he could see Jody’s soul too, not as bright as his or Dean’s but he could see the gentle glow surrounding her. Her thoughts felt different from Dean’s as well, more ordered and linear, and he realised that he had been able to tell who each person was before he had entered the room.

 

   “Oh yeah, sorry about that,” she put the caffeine in front of him and he grabbed it gratefully, more for the heat seeping into his hands than the caffeine content. “She was a bit opposed to me calling you guys in, said we should sort it out ourselves. At first I thought so too. Thought werewolves couldn’t be too difficult, not that different from vampires, right? Well, wrong. It’s been a week, I’ve got no leads and people are dying. Thought it was time to call in the experts.”

 

   She shook her head, looking down into the steam rising from her mug as she attempted to flatten her dark hair. Sam could feel the tiredness rolling off her in oppressive waves.

 

   “Makes me think about back to before I knew any of this was going on. Still tryin’ to arrest Bobby for being drunk and disorderly, not noticing that whenever weird crap started happening that it would just magically clear itself up.” She snorted.

 

   “Kind of ironic, thinkin’ back on how hard I would have laughed if you boys had told me what was really going on. I would have given you a therapist’s number and recommended the nearest mental institution. Also, I now understand all the drinking that Bobby used to do. The hard liquor’s looking more inviting by the day. That might be because of trying to raise two teenage girls though.” Dean snorted as she took another big sip of coffee.

 

   “So, talking of the girls, where’s Alex? She getting on okay with Claire?”

 

   Jody grunted. “Gone off on a road trip with a couple friends before any of this started. She’ll be fine, she knows what she’s doing. She and Claire got on like a house on fire after the first week, but they still tend to do their own thing. Both very independent, you know.”

 

   Sam smiled at her, feeling the fondness behind the words. “Thanks so much for taking them in, Jody. I know it’s a lot to ask, but hunting with young people was never a good idea and the past few years…”

 

   Jody waved her hand. “Forget it, Sam. You’ve had a lot on your plates for as long as I can remember, and anyway, it’s good for me to have… family.” Sam winced slightly as he felt a curl of grief settle over him.

 

   After a slightly heavy pause, Jody shook herself and exclaimed, “Well come on! Shouldn’t we be working here? People are dying.”

 

.o0o.

 

   It was refreshing not to have to lie about their identities for once to access the case files or get into the morgue. Jody chatted jovially with the portly mortician as Sam and Dean snapped on gloves, then he left them to inspect the bodies with a friendly wave even though Sam could feel his curious thoughts reaching back to them from his office.

 

   Sure enough, as soon as they pulled back the white sheets, they could tell that the case was unlikely to be as open and shut as they had expected.

 

   “Aw shit, this doesn’t look like werewolves,” Dean grumbled under his breath as he gingerly prodded at the insides of a cold body with gloved fingers, his thoughts curling slightly with disgust. “Look; these cuts are too precise, too much slicing for a wolf, not enough ripping and tearing. The chests of these bodies should look more like mincemeat, less like they’ve been hacked at by a crazy surgeon.”

 

   “Same here, Dean. All the bodies are the same, all missing a heart, all sliced up,” Sam called from the next table, pushing the corpse back into refrigeration and pulling off his gloves.

 

   “So, what are we thinking? Something else covering its tracks, or maybe an angry spirit?” Sam could feel Jody thinking his question over while Dean pulled the battered EMF detector from his inside pocket.

 

   Dean ran the machine slowly along the length of the body in front of him from the feet towards the head. As he reached the mangled chest, a few lights flashed and it began to whine. Dean grinned.

 

   “Gotcha. Residual EMF, looks like it was a spirit. Good call, Sam.”

 

As Dean raised the detector to put it back in his coat, it waved for half a second in Sam’s direction. Instantly, the occasional blipping turned into a wild scream before cutting off with a shower of sparks. Dean swore and dropped it, and they all stared down at the shattered screen and burnt out bulbs.

 

   “Um, you sure your machine’s reliable, Dean? I think you might need a new one.” Jody looked down at it sceptically. Dean flicked a scowl at Sam, who tried to look innocent, then back to his detector.

 

_Dude! You busted my meter! I had that one for years. You are so paying for another one._

 

   Sam grimaced and tried to shoot an apologetic look at Dean. “Oh, no, no. Really, Jody, it was fine, there was definitely EMF on that body, we’re dealing with a spirit. We’re just having a few… personal issues at the moment.” Jody raised an eyebrow.

 

   “Well, I kind of already knew you boys had issues. First time they’ve started interfering with the electronics though. What’s going on with you two? Is there something I should know? Anything I can help with?”

 

   Dean rubbed his forehead as though he had a headache coming on. “Don’t worry about it, Jody. We’re workin’ on it.”

 

.o0o.

 

   Now that they knew they were dealing with an angry spirit, the rest of the research went remarkably easily. A painting, owned by a local woman who had died from a badly botched heart transplant at the local hospital, was being passed around her family, friends and neighbours after the owner’s cremation.

 

   “You’d think they would stop passing it around after person number three kicked the bucket, but nope,” Dean made the ‘p’ into an annoying popping sound as he loaded salt into the shotgun rounds that evening. Jody shot him a sharp look and cuffed him around the back of the head.

 

   “You watch your tongue. Those are my dead townspeople you’re talking about.” Dean apologised, his face red and massaging his ear, and Sam turned away so Dean wouldn’t see him grinning about how much he looked like a chastised five year old.

 

   The painting was propped in the hallway where they had salvaged it from the lucky neighbour about to become the next victim. Once they were done with the salt, they had a close look at it to try and decipher why it was haunted.

 

   “Yeuch,” Dean said under his breath as they inspected it, “If I ever got tied to earth by something as ugly as this piece of crap, Sammy, believe me, I’d want to be burned. Maybe she’s just really homicidal mad because she’s stuck to that old thing?”

 

   It was true, even Sam couldn’t find any polite words to say about the painting. It was a desolate landscape painted all in dull, lifeless colours with thick and clumsy brushstrokes. Privately, he agreed with Dean and wondered how the woman had ever become attached enough to it to tie her life force down. He squinted harder at the picture as Dean gave up and went back down the hallway.

 

   Suddenly a glow caught the corner of his eye. He looked down and saw a shadowy thread of light curling around the heavy, ornate frame. He grinned and straightened, following Dean into the kitchen.

 

   “Hey, Dean! Pretty sure it’s the frame she’s haunting, not the picture.”

 

   Jody squinted at him. “Hold on. How do you know?”

 

   “Um… just a feeling.” Dean looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Then he saw Dean’s eyes focus on something on the worktop behind him and an exasperated scowl darkened his features.

 

   “Oh _come on_!” Dean stomped over and picked up a slightly dog-eared paperback novel, his thoughts roiling in displeasure and disgust. From where he was Sam could see the pictures of two overly buff, half naked men on the front cover and groaned loudly.

 

   “Not you too, Jody?”

 

   Jody shrugged, picking imaginary bits of fluff from her jacket to hide her amused thoughts at their reactions. The traitor. “Well, actually, Claire’s reading them currently. She thinks they’re very entertaining. Personally, I got them because they were really educational on stuff for hunting, I’ve been lending them to Donna too to help her get started. They’re like an essential item in the hunter starter training package by now, practically everyone uses them. I’m surprised you didn’t know. But the girls have really taken to them. Alex is at a con right now, but I didn’t think I should mention it. Claire would have gone too, but she doesn’t want spoilers. Did you know they’re going to make a TV show out of them?”

 

   Dean sputtered, his ears beginning to turn red. His thoughts were choppy and half-formed with indignation. “But there are things he wrote in there, private things! That’s our entire lives in those books!”

 

   “Yeah,” Sam agreed. As well as several rather embarrassing sex scenes, he seemed to remember a large portion of his relationship with Ruby and all the blood drinking, not to mention his possession by Lucifer. Not exactly parts of his life that he wanted to be turned into crappy pulp novels, and not really the way he wanted to be known by new hunters either.

 

   Jody shrugged, still sending ripples of amusement. “Sorry, boys. But it was good to know what actually happened in the apocalypse, and they really are useful for hunting. Better not look them up online though, according to Claire and Alex you’ve got a pretty fanatical fanbase.”

 

   Sam tried not to imagine the kind of things that were online about him and his brother and block the memories coming from Jody as he snorted. “Yeah, we know, we’ve met some of them. Mind you, that play was pretty good. Except for the second act.”

 

   Dean growled and flung the book down again, then wiped his hand on his jacket as though it was infected. “I swear, I want to bring that asshole Chuck back to life just so I can beat him to death with copies of those fucking books.” Sam nodded grimly in agreement, and Dean shuddered slightly before changing the subject.

 

   “Yeah, anyway, we should probably get that picture into the back garden and burn it before the spirit decides to play a little game of Operation with us. She usually only comes out well after dark, so we should have a few more minutes. Have you got salt and a lighter, Jody?”

 

   “I thought you were finished with the salt after you loaded that shotgun of yours.”

 

   Jody reached for the kitchen cupboard, but the door was stuck. She tried again, yanking harder with both hands, but the flickering of the lights told them that they might have waited too long. The bulb blinked out and their breath steamed in front as they stared at each other in the darkness, the atmosphere suddenly tense.

 

   “Aw, crap.” Dean reached for the salt loaded shotgun on the sideboard, cocking it. “Why is she out already? This is a strong one. She must know we’re going to burn the picture. Quick, Sam, go get the salt from the trunk.”

 

   Before Sam could even take a step, the front door shut with a gust of wind and a loud bang. Simultaneously, Dean and Jody were slammed against the kitchen wall by the heavy wooden dining table, pinning their legs and waists. Alarm and pain sliced through Sam’s mind like knives, overwhelming him for a second. The shotgun was wrenched out of Dean’s grip and flung to the other side of the kitchen.

 

   Sam lunged after it and it flew into his hand with a mental tug as he twisted around to keep the room covered while he got to his feet again.

 

   “ _Sam! There_!” Jody yelled with both her voice and her mind, pointing to where the apparition of a middle aged woman in a hospital gown and a ravaged chest was slowly walking towards where Dean and Jody were still struggling to get free, shapeless aggression howling around her like a tornado. Sam pulled the trigger, but to his horror nothing happened; he tried again, and again, then shook it, but the mechanism was jammed. He couldn’t even open the chamber. She had nearly reached them.

 

   “HEY!” In his desperation he yelled at the ghost, waving his arms wildly. She turned towards him, turning her attention away from Dean and Jody but she was advancing on Sam now, hand outstretched in front of her as she staggered forwards, blood dripping from her sagging mouth.

 

   He backed away until he was in the corner of the kitchen cabinets, feeling around behind him for anything that might be salt or iron, panic building in his chest. He could hear his heart beating frantically against his ribs and pounding in his ears as he watched her slouch towards him.

 

   He gasped as the panic broke something inside of him, a wall crumbling as something slid into place, and suddenly he felt a wave of cool energy wash through him. It brushed away the fog of panic, leaving his thoughts as sharp and clear as crystal. It wasn’t like the warehouse, he wasn’t burnt by the cold; it was a part of him now. The energy warmed in his veins, tickling pleasantly behind his eyes and suddenly he could _see_ the ghost, as though another filter had been dropped over his vision.

 

   She was still standing in front of him but she had stopped advancing, tilting her head like she knew that something in her prey had changed but she couldn’t tell what. A drifting thread of energy wound from her into the hallway where the painting was, a leash to tether her to the earth. The strands of liquid light that made up her soul were twisted and contorted, nothing like the bright souls that he instinctively knew were Dean and Jody.

 

   With a thought, he severed the ribbon attaching her to the picture frame. It dissipated like smoke on a breeze, leaving her looking puzzled for a second. Then her soul began to untwist, unwinding as her mirage evaporated, but Sam could still see her soul as it rippled with happiness at being freed before darting upwards through the roof.

 

   After she was gone, Sam looked back at the room. Everything stood out in too-bright clarity, the lines of the world too sharp and clean, but his eyes were drawn to the souls in front of him. Jody’s soul was a beautiful bright, liquid shape spread through her torso, mostly blue with strands of bright violet and orange.

 

   But Jody’s soul was nothing next to Dean’s, a candle behind the sun. Sam had to fight the urge to squint as he gazed at his brother. His light was brighter, harsher than the other souls, the consistency more like fire than a liquid. His soul was in constant motion, twisting and contorting in anxiety and almost spilling over the edges as though his body was not quite large enough to contain him. The flames blazed emerald green shot through with hazel, but the densest, brightest part of him shone white-gold, twisting and reforming in a complex, impossible knot around his heart. Despite his soul’s colour, the light that he emitted was a stark white that lit the whole room and made everything else look flat and colourless.

 

   Sam had never thought to describe anyone with the word ‘glorious’ before, never mind his brother, but that was really the only way to describe Dean. The more Sam stared, the more he saw. A great many of the flames were blackened and tarnished, or had died out altogether in other places leaving stretches of bare emptiness that looked _wrong_ , but it didn’t diminish the beauty of the vast soul before him. Was this what Castiel saw all the time? Suddenly Sam could understand the staring.

 

   He felt removed as he watched Dean (his soul still swirling through his body in distress) shove the table away from his legs and stagger forwards, mesmerised by the clouds of energy that his burning heart gave off like shining steam. He heard sound as if it was coming through water, as though he was light years away in another dimension. He felt fear and desperation drum against him, but the soul was right in front of him now and he was overcome with the light, overwhelmed by it. Why was his body shaking? Could he hear someone calling? Sammy was him, right? He was Sam. That was him, they were calling his name!

 

   He felt disjointed from his body, out of synch as he raised his eyes to look into the concerned eyes of his brother’s vessel, the light still pouring through them. _It’s true_ , he thought with ringing clarity, _eyes are the windows of the soul_.

 

   Sam could feel himself as well, feel his own soul tied tightly to the flesh and blood and bone of his vessel. He was like them, all light and glowing strands. Although, now he thought about it, with how mangled his soul was, it was probably blackened and tarnished beyond repair.

  

   But he must be glowing anyway, illuminated from the inside by the Grace that was burning cold in his chest where he should have felt his heart beating, still pumping energy through his veins.

 

   Just as he became aware of the Grace he felt an aching tug deep in his chest next to his heart, and something brilliant-bright darted through the room and collided with him.

 

   There was a sudden rush as the volume of cool energy flowing into him doubled into a torrent. As the energy passed through him it warmed, became human, became his, but now there was too much and the pressure was still building behind his eyes, building until he was fit to burst. He held it in. He couldn’t hurt Dean, had to protect Dean. His thoughts echoed back at him, sharp and hard as knives as they bounced around the inside of his mind.

 

   Before the energy could sear his eyes and fry his nerves, there was a twinge of thought at the back of his head and the floodgates opened, the energy pouring back into the Grace like water down the drain. He sighed with relief and let his eyes droop closed. Suddenly, he could feel his body again, heavy and aching and tired, his thoughts fuzzing over once more with exhaustion.

 

   Sam felt his body falling like a marionette with its strings cut and then he was drifting down, down, down into blackness.

 

\------ ------ ------ ------ ------ ------

 

   Dean knew from the second that the lights began to flicker that they were in deep shit. But it wasn’t until there was a heavy oak table pinning him to the wall, and he was watching Sam get backed into a corner by a lady in a backless hospital gown with blood all down the front, that he realised just how screwed they really were.

 

   Dean’s heart was in his throat as the thing advanced on Sam. Then suddenly it stopped and cocked its head. Dean followed its stare and then he felt his heart miss a beat in his chest in shock.

 

   A second ago Sam had been cringing against the cabinets, groping behind himself for a weapon and looking terrified. Now, he stood up tall, his straight spine making him loom over the room even more than usual. There was a mask of eerie calm over his face and his eyes were _glowing_ with the sharp blue light of grace as he looked down at them in a way that reminded Dean uneasily of when he had been possessed by Gadreel. A drop of blood emerged from his nose and began to track towards his lip.

 

   The spirit suddenly vanished from the centre of the room, not with an angry scream but dissolving on a gentle puff of breeze and a brief flash of light. Dean felt the iron grip on his legs release and shoved the table away. Immediately he staggered across the kitchen towards his little brother.

 

   When he looked up at him, Sam was still gazing down at him from his full height with terrible angelic intensity, but he was staring through Dean without really seeing him at all. Fighting his rising panic, he took Sam by the shoulders and shook him hard, grasping the lapels of his jacket in clenched fists.

 

   “Sam! Sammy, come back! Sam!”

 

   With what seemed like a great effort, Sam’s gleaming eyes focused on Dean and the corner of his mouth inched upwards. There were small streams of blood coming from both nostrils now, painting his lips with crimson streaks and slowly dripping from his chin.

 

   “Yeah, that’s it, you get your ass back here Sammy!”

 

   Suddenly Sam’s gaze broke from his as he looked up. He gasped and the light in the depths of his pupils shone white bright for a few seconds, then suddenly cut off. When he had blinked the spots from his vision, Sam’s normal hazel eyes looked back at him, slightly surprised before they rolled up into his head and his body began to sag towards the floor. Jody rushed forwards, helping him to catch Sam just before he toppled under the weight of his gigantic little brother.

 

   Together, they laid him on the couch and stared down at him while they waited for their hearts to stop pounding in their ears. _This is not good,_ he thought to himself, debating what to do, his mind still whirring. Cas could heal him, or at least tell them what had gone wrong.

 

   “Well, on the plus side Jody, I think we dealt with your spirit problem,” Dean panted, “But I need your help getting Sam into the Impala.”

 

   “What? Shouldn’t he stay here, at least until he wakes up? Dean, were his eyes glowing? That’s not normal, even for you boys. What’s going on? You at least owe me an explanation before you take off.” Jody looked at Sam with her forehead creased in worry as she gave him the Mum Voice.

 

   But Dean was already moving, shifting Sam’s gigantic floppy limbs so he could hoist him into a fireman’s lift. “Sorry Jody, but I need to get him back to Cas. I have no idea what that was, but my guess is it wasn’t good, so I need to get him out of your living room before he explodes and demolishes the state. I would explain, but it’s a really long story and I have to get going. I’ll give you a ring when we get back.”

 

   Jody levelled him an unimpressed look as she followed him out of the front door to the Impala. “You’d better. What have you boys got yourselves mixed up in this time?”

 

   Dean grunted as he opened the door to the back seat. “Nothing good, as per usual.”

 

 


	6. Incredible Psychic Powers

   Sam came back to consciousness very slowly. There were snatches of the deep rumble of the Impala’s engine at first, but the steady vibration rocked him back to sleep before he could even muster the will to open his eyes.

 

   When he drifted back to wakefulness again, he was warm with dim golden light seeping through his closed lids. The gentle murmurs of a quiet conversation reached his ears and when a hand pressed gently to his chest his eyes fluttered open almost of their own accord.

 

   He gasped in horror, recoiling into the arm of the couch and away from the terrible _thing_ in front of him. His body went from zero to fight or flight in an instant, adrenaline flooding his veins and he was off the couch and backed into a corner of the room with no clear memory of moving there, cowering like a frightened animal before the horribly mutilated creature in front of him.

 

   Its whole body glowed with a hard white-blue light, harsher than the fiery soul standing behind it. Great skeletal wings were the first thing he registered, stretched out wide in surprise, a few naked quills still clinging to the ripped and tattered flesh. The limbs were not quite straight, as though they had been broken and then healed without being set properly. There was something _wrong_ about them on a primal level, to see things that should be so glorious reduced to bones and meat.

 

   Below the wings three heads gazed at him with swirling blue eyes, somehow transposed on top of each other and sharing the same space, their features constantly shifting. Their drilling stare made his mind ache, and Sam looked away before the sight drove him insane. The entire creature shimmered with sharp blue Grace-light at the edges like a mirage, as though it was on the cusp between being just energy and fully manifested, or as though his brain was only showing the parts to him that his mind could comprehend.

 

   There were limbs that looked like almost like arms, the fingers (which had more joints than normal) tipped with long, sharp, delicate claws. And was that a tail? Whatever it was, it looked lethal, muscled and covered in jutting spikes of bone. And also more eyes. Which were actually all over the thing, now that he was looking.

 

   Blinking frantically to get rid of the slight burning sting behind his own eyeballs, Sam could see its body more clearly. It was covered in feathers (or were they scales?), but they seemed to constantly change their texture, going from a fluffy, silky coating to a hundred thousand bristling blades in a second. The world bent and twisted around it as the creature folded on top of itself, tucking into the fabric of the universe to squeeze into a smaller space, giving the impression that only a tiny part of it was visible.

 

   Gashes and singed areas could be seen between the shifting feathers, some scabbed over but others still oozing blue-laced blood, and everywhere there was bare skin over its arms and faces there was a lattice of silver scars, new criss-crossing the old. Sam flinched back further as it limped towards him. Whatever this thing was, it was a seasoned warrior, not yet recovered from its battle wounds.

 

   He saw the thing reach out a scarred, clawed arm, Grace crackling along it like lightning. His heart rate tripled in his throat as he recoiled and screwed his eyes shut, but it was too fast and he was surprised when instead of cold claws he felt the warmth of a human palm pressed against his forehead. He felt something click into place in his brain and opened his eyes.

 

   The world was flat and dull again, the light warm instead of piercing-bright, and Castiel was standing in front of him, hand outstretched and forehead creased in concern. Sam sighed in relief, but felt a tiny twinge of loss at the lack of vision. Dean hovered behind Cas, looking and feeling as though he was going to explode with tension at any second.

 

   Sam took several deep breaths, trying to calm the pounding of his heart, which ached in his chest again, and make sense of what he had just seen. With a huff he stood up straighter and nodded at Dean, who deflated slightly but didn’t move from where he was.

 

   “Sam, are you alright? What happened?” Cas asked, his blue eyes deeper and richer than the blue of Grace.

 

   Sam looked around himself, noting with surprise that they were back at the bunker. He reached up and wiped wet blood from his nose with the back of his hand. “Not sure. Hang on, why are we back here? What happened with Jody and the spirit?”

 

   “We came back after you zapped the thing with your Incredible Psychic Powers then passed out like you’d been knocked over the head,” Dean told him, stepping forward. “Cas was about to take a look at you, then you went all crazy on us. What the hell, dude?”

 

   “I believe it was the Grace,” Cas answered for him, “You were seeing people’s souls better, correct? If you thought that you were going to die when you were attacked by the ghost, I think that the panic may have made your soul bind more tightly to the Grace, causing an energy surge. I am quite impressed, I had not thought that the piece of Grace contained that much energy. I imagine that the sight of raw human souls would be quite disturbing if you were not used to it.”

 

   Sam nodded his head slowly, “Yeah, but…”

 

   “I put a temporary block in your mind, it should begin to fade in a few hours but it should last long enough to give you time to adjust.”

 

   Sam sighed. “Yeah, Cas, I was seeing souls, but I was fine. I could see you too, and I’m sorry for freaking out. Just wanted to apologise about the wings. Why didn’t you tell us they were that bad?”

 

   Castiel blinked, his face going blank but his thoughts lit up with a blaze of white shock. Dean’s gaze darted suspiciously as he came to stand between them, bracing his hand on Cas’ shoulder so he could turn him to look into his face, but Cas was still staring at Sam, colours roiling from white to yellow to a vivid neon green and back again.

 

   “Wait, what about his wings? What haven’t you been telling us, Cas?”

 

   “Shut up, Dean.”

 

   “That shouldn’t be possible,” Castiel murmured incredulously, leaning forwards out of Dean’s grip to place his palm against Sam’s forehead again. “Your brainstem should have should have burnt and your eyes should have boiled out of their sockets.”

 

   “Not really reassuring, Cas,” Sam said dryly. If the mood had been any lighter he might have grinned at the slightly sulky prodding sensation coming from Dean, as though he resented Sam getting all of Cas’ attention.

 

   Cas placed his other palm against his chest and leant forwards, staring at him even more seriously than usual, as though he just couldn’t believe that Sam could actually see his True Form. Dean’s sulk deepened, the prodding getting harder. Sam felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

 

   “This doesn’t make sense. You need to tell me everything you could see, Sam. How did I appear to you? You shouldn’t be able to comprehend any part of my true form.”

 

   “Well… there were the wings, and you had three heads and all of the scales- I think- and you had these long arms with big claws at the ends of the fingers, oh, and a tail. And you were all kind of folded up, so I couldn’t really see all of you. But I kind of got the impression that I wasn’t even seeing all of the parts that _were_ in the open, you know? Like there was more, just… out of sight.” Sam didn’t think that there were the words in the English language to describe the awful, beautiful creature he had seen, so he left it at that.

 

   Castiel nodded, looking disturbed. “We do exist on at least six dimensions.”

 

   “Hold up, Sam. _Three_ heads? What were you saying about wings? What’s wrong with them? Is that why you never fly anymore? You told us you just got attached to the car.”

 

   Castiel blushed slightly, his thoughts turning yellow in embarrassment, and Sam watched him avoid Dean’s eyes by staring determinedly at the buttons on his jacket. “It’s nothing serious, Dean, it wasn’t harming me so I didn’t think-”

 

   “It’s pretty bad, Dean. He’s bleeding in a few other places too, but his wings are really roughed up. There’s not really any feathers left on them and the skin’s all torn, there’s only really the bones left of the things.”

 

   Cas shot Sam a betrayed look but Sam just stared determinedly back. They deserved to know, and if the past had taught them anything it was that secrets in general were a Very Bad Idea. Dean looked appalled, his thoughts cringing and sort of reaching towards Cas like over protective fingers.

 

   “Why didn’t you ever tell us, man? We could have helped.”

 

   Castiel deflated and sighed, suddenly looking tired. “No you couldn’t. Most of the angels have wings that look like that now anyway, it happened during the fall, and mine were tattered well before that. It’s just that, what with my grace being removed, the wounds I sustained from being cast down from heaven have had less time to heal. As for the older ones, well,” He shrugged, “I am a warrior. I fought in the garrison before the earth was even fully formed.”

 

   Dean looked at a loss about what to say to that, his thoughts a whirling pool of worry and tension. Then he slumped, and his thoughts suddenly turned lethargic, as though something was tugging them in another direction before grinding to a halt, his emotional state a worrying blank.

 

   Sam watched as he got up abruptly, muttering something about having to pick up some groceries and parts to fix the EMF meter, but they all knew that he was really he was heading for the bar. Sam didn’t blame him. Frankly, he was surprised that Dean had held out this long. It had been a long week.

 

   Cas sighed after the door swung shut behind him. “He has had too much on his mind. He needs some time to deal with it.”

 

   “To forget it, you mean.” Sam sighed and dropped back onto the couch, which protested with a resigned wheeze. “Although, he’s coping with all this Grace stuff better than I thought he would, probably better than I am. I thought he would be throwing a fit by now. I mean, what the hell happened yesterday? I don’t remember much, just snapshots.” Sam shuddered slightly, remembering the feeling of incredible power and complete lack of control, then looked across. “Hey Cas, about your wings…”

 

   “Since there is nothing that we can do, I would prefer if we stopped talking about it.” Cas said stiffly.

 

   “Yeah, sure.” Sam quickly cast around for a different topic of conversation and found a convenient stack of other worrying questions to ask about. “Hey, didn’t you say I should never have enough energy to see angelic true forms? Also, banishing ghosts was never part of my powers before, and I didn’t hear of any of the other gifted children having it either. Does that mean that I was using the Grace, or that the Grace was doing it for me? Am I a sort of half angel now? Am I even remotely human anymore?” He exhaled slowly and rubbed at his forehead, where an ache was beginning to grow.

 

   “Of course you are not human, Sam. You have not been fully human since you were six months old, and even then you were not pure, not with Nephilim blood in your line.” Cas said it with the same blunt sincerity he approached most things with.

 

   Sam looked up and stared in surprise at Castiel. He had been half expecting empty and very unconvincing reassurances, not _this_.

 

   “What you really need to think about,” Cas told him, “Is whether that matters. Whether or not your body has been influenced by several different species, your soul makes you a person, a good, kind person, even if not a human one. Your soul always did have more compassion than even Dean’s, and that was when it was still tainted by the demon blood. You are both still the brightest souls I have ever seen, even now.”

 

   Sam blinked and felt a weight lift from his shoulders at Castiel’s earnest words that had been there so long he could no longer remember not carrying it. His chest felt slightly tight (probably just the dry bunker air) as he said, “Thanks, Cas.” He cleared his throat. “You too, man. You know that, right? We think that you’re a person. The best kind of people too. You’ve been my best friend for years, and, well, Dean… We don’t care that you’re a…” He gave a vague hand motion. The word ‘angel’ didn’t quite seem to fit any more with the creature he had seen beneath Castiel’s skin.

 

   Talking of which… Sam could just see the ghostly mirages of wings sprouting from behind his shoulder blades, the tail curled around his feet. As he looked around he noticed that the colours were brighter, the lines were sharper and the world seemed to shimmer as though he could reach out with a finger and smear it like wet paint.

 

   “Um, Cas? I think your block might be wearing off.”

 

   Cas scowled. “Are you sure, Sam? That block was quite powerful, it should have lasted half a day at least.” He stretched forwards, when stopped with a small gasp with his hand about ten centimetres from Sam’s face. Sam saw the ghostly wings, which had been folded near his back, snap out in shock, and his pupils contracted slightly in fear. This couldn’t be good.

 

   “Sam…” Cas spoke, his deep voice quiet as though Sam was a wild animal that he was trying not to spook. Sam felt his heart begin to accelerate. “I think I may have made a slight mistake in diagnosing your condition.”

 

   “What are you talking about?” Castiel looked sheepish, his wings folding tight against his back and shuffling.

 

   “You know how I said it was Grace that you absorbed?” Sam nodded slowly. “Well, I was right about that. Those witches did pour grace into you. I was just wrong about the… _type_ of Grace. It seems that you absorbed part of an archangel’s Grace.”

 

   Sam stopped in confusion. That wasn’t what he had expected. “What?” Then his blood ran cold. “Wait, not-”

 

   “No, it wasn’t Lucifer. I would have been able to feel that, and he is still trapped whole in the cage. I’m sure he would let us know if he had been released.” Sam nodded in relief, holding up four fingers and dropping one.

 

   “So he’s out. Michael’s in there too, right?” Castiel nodded and Sam dropped another finger. “You got Raphael, I presume you would have felt if there were any bits missing.”

 

   Cas nodded again grimly. “Yes, I destroyed all the parts of him. I even scattered his molecules, there would be no way for anyone except God to reassemble him.”

 

   “So that leaves Gabriel.” As Sam said the words, he felt a warmth bloom in his chest, curling around his heart as though the Grace recognised its previous owner’s name. Sam saw Cas staring at his chest, obviously watching the Grace with a confused expression on his face. Sam didn’t blame him. “Yeah, pretty sure it’s him. But I was also pretty sure that he was dead.”

 

   Castiel shrugged, his ghostly wings twitching up and down with the movement of his shoulders. “We also thought him dead when he disappeared from heaven. And you thought so when you staked him, multiple times. He was a trickster for many years as well as an archangel, after all.”

 

   Sam blew out a breath. “So, how’s this different from any other angel Grace?”

 

   “Archangels were exponentially more powerful than ordinary angels. I thought when I first inspected you that there was something slightly strange about that Grace, but now I realise that it was simply a tiny, torn off piece of something much larger. I didn’t even know it was possible to divide your Grace and survive. Maybe he did it when he had to hide his Grace from heaven and live among the pagans. Or maybe it was my brother’s attempt to survive the apocalypse.”

 

   “Well, it sort of worked, didn’t it?” Sam stared down at his chest, where he could start to see a glow through the skin.

 

   “Yes. But I have no idea what this will do to you, Sam. If there is no previous record of souls absorbing ordinary Grace, the chances of there being a record of archangel Grace absorbance is next to zero.”

 

   Actually, Sam was sort of relieved. Yeah, he had absorbed archangel Grace with unknown consequences, but it could have been so much worse; after all, when the devil was an actual valid option, anything else was an improvement. Nothing about the situation had changed if he looked at it logically; they still knew absolutely nothing about it, and the only way to gather any more information on it was to wait and see what happened. Yeah, Gabriel had been kind of a dick (well, definitely a dick. Sam still couldn’t listen to Asia). But he had eventually come over to their side and even stood up to his family for them, something that had surprised Sam. He had respected Gabriel for that, knowing how hard it was himself. He had been disappointed, even saddened, to learn that he had died, but there had been no time to mourn someone who they had barely known during the apocalypse, even if he had given them the tip that allowed them to imprison the devil.

 

   He still had questions though. “Doesn’t Grace get destroyed when an angel dies?”

 

   “Our Grace is just another form of energy. When we die it gets torn up and scattered; the larger the Grace, the bigger the blast, so the farther the pieces get flung. It’s a little like a supernova. I believe that your panic last night activated the piece of Grace inside you, and it is now pulling more of the pieces in, trying to reassemble.”

 

   “Do you think there are any bits of Gabriel left? You know, _him_ rather than just his Grace.”

 

   Castiel tilted his head. “I’m not sure. Most of him would have been destroyed in the blast. There may be some pieces that survived, and his Grace will have probably absorbed some of his personality. If that is the case, it would seem as though he was rather fond of you.”

 

   Sam snorted. “Yeah, fond of torturing me. I’m sure we were very entertaining.”

 

   Suddenly, light flashed briefly in front of his eyes and Sam felt a jolt as another pulse of energy ran through him, ripping away the veil he was suddenly aware of over his mind and casting every sense in blinding, overwhelming brilliance again. He screwed his eyes shut, but it didn’t seem to make a difference, he could still see _everything, damn it…_

 

   This time, though, he was a little more prepared for it. After a few seconds he blinked and squinted at Castiel’s many faces, all of which managed to look concerned despite the lack of anything that could be considered human features.

 

   “I saw it! That was another piece of Grace! Are you alright, Sam?” Castiel’s voice was as deep and gravelly as ever, but underneath it there were new, even deeper layers and a clear ringing tone that he had never heard before.

 

   “Yeah,” His voice came out as a croak.

 

   And he sort of was; as his eyes got used to the glare, he could see past Cas’ true form to his vessel, still standing there in front of him with his head tilted to one side. He blinked a few times, getting used to his new vision. He imagined dropping a filter into place, and Cas’ vessel came into better focus, the physical world superimposing itself over whatever new plane of existence he was seeing. Blink, true form. Blink, vessel.

 

   He looked away and suddenly realised that he could see right through the walls, or down into the earth. He could see the currants in the air and heat rising from the ground. All the surfaces glowed with tiny, tiny specks of life and the wards on the walls shone with hard brilliance. He could smell the ozone of Cas’ presence sharp in his nostrils, mixed with the smells of book dust and the lingering odour of gunpowder and whisky and cheap diner food from Dean. When he brought his hand in front of his face his skin glowed with energy from within as though there was lightning in his veins instead of blood, wisps of warm amber and moss green mixing with the hot-cold light.

 

   He could feel the every strand of his soul, felt the quickening trickle of energy between himself and another part that was not quite him, coiled around his heart. A surge of possessiveness made him come to a decision and he pulled the thing closer, gripped it tighter. If Sam couldn’t remove it, couldn’t do anything about it, then he was going to have to own it. _Mine,_ he thought and accepted the Grace, pressing himself against it in turn.

 

   He reached further, and suddenly his thoughts were clear again, expanding and echoing back to him as though he was in a cathedral. With a start, his perceptions widened and he could see his body standing with a blank look on its face. He was outside. The bright clarity was startling and almost addictive. Who needed the messy complications of bodies, with their closed minds and tight-squashed-thoughts which when he could have this?

 

   He floated upwards, filled with light from the glowing-Grace inside him, weightless as a feather. He could still feel his body, his vessel, but it was very far away, only attached to him by a tight-thin-thread. He felt the urge to escape, to be free of his flesh, and he stretched the thread to its limit and gave a tug. The leash held and he tugged harder, surging towards freedom, but he was bound to his body. He gave up and looked around from his vantage point.

 

   Castiel was a beacon of brightness in the foreground, but far beyond his light there were more, billions and billions of them. And amongst them all there were tiny fragments of shining-gleaming-Grace, spread over the surface of reality like glitter, all slowly moving towards him as though they were magnetised. He focused on close to where his own vessel stood and tugged one towards himself, watching as it melded seamlessly with the piece inside him. There was a jolt of pure-cold-energy next to his heart, but it quickly warmed.

 

   He cast out for more pieces and saw a very familiar soul traveling away from the bunker. He reached out with a great, ethereal finger and gently touched it, but it recoiled, rippling in panic.

 

   He drew back, a tingling of guilt along his mind. He had hurt it with his great, clumsy fingers. He hadn’t meant to scare it, he _cared_. Wait, who was the soul? Who was _he_? Where was he? Panic was impossible to achieve in his state but he felt himself coil tighter in unease.

 

   He suddenly felt a tug on the thread from the other direction and followed it willingly back to his own vessel, letting himself be lead to cover his confusion, his thoughts folding inwards as he was squeezed back into a linear human brain.

 

   As soon as he was in he could feel his own body again, confusion and panic hit him like a sledgehammer. Sam felt bile rise in his throat and leaned over as he retched, Cas supporting him with a hand on his back and a horrified look on his face.

 

   “Sam, you… you almost left your body…”

 

   Yeah, no shit, Sam felt like saying, and would have if he thought that he could keep his stomach contents if he opened his mouth. Now that he was back in his vessel, no his _body_ , the thought that he had nearly left it was terrifying for some reason. Maybe it was the thought of floating untethered for eternity, a lost spirit in another realm. He felt his soul twist itself more securely around his heart, leashing itself tightly to his flesh. He still gripped the Grace inside himself tightly, and the room flashed nauseatingly, impossibly brighter.

 

   “Sam? Sam, are you alright now? I tried to call you back. Are you anchored?” Sam nodded and dropped into a chair before his trembling legs gave out, wiping his nose and grimacing when his hand came away red again. Something was bothering him. He had to tell Cas what had happened.

 

   His voice came out as a croak. “I tried to leave, to get out of my body. I don’t know, it just felt right. But I couldn’t, something held me in.”

 

   Cas nodded, hovering as though he wasn’t sure how to help, his aura buzzing orange with agitation. “I believe that it was one of the symbols on your chest, the ones the witches carved. The ones over your heart not only bind the Grace to your soul, but also the soul to your body. Apparently with a certain amount of freedom, but not that much.”

 

   Sam sifted through what had happened. Now that he was back in his body, the crystal clarity of the memories made them almost painful to recall. “Wait… I think, when I was, you know,” Sam waved his hands vaguely upwards, “I think I might have touched Dean’s soul.” Castiel’s eyes widened and his broken wings snapped out to their fullest extent.

 

   Sam groaned and dropped his head into his hands, trying to massage away the headache developing behind his eyes. This was why he couldn’t have nice things. Dean was going to kill him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About all the hyphonation- I'm using it to show the difference between thinking while Sam is in his body and when he's not. I imagine that there are probably a lot fewer actual words and a lot more images, memories and associations, or that's what I'm trying to get across anyway.


	7. Coping Mechanisms

   Dean never even got to have his drink.

 

   He was halfway to the bar when it happened, driving with his mind a careful blank. Don’t think about Cas with three heads and broken wings, don’t think about Sam with glowing eyes. Don’t think about _anything at all._ The worries kept trying to intrude, but he only had to keep pushing them to the back for a little longer, then he could erase them with a little help from Mr. Whiskey. For at least until tomorrow morning.

 

   He sighed, accelerating towards the bar.

 

   Suddenly, something touched him and he yelled and jerked the wheel so hard that he nearly drove off the road. It wasn’t a touch to his body, it touched him _inside_ , right in the most private core of him. It only lasted for half a second but the touch seemed to burn him like a brand, leaving him raw and aching and naked.

 

   He felt a vast alien presence looming over him, terrifyingly huge and powerful but at the same time somehow familiar. The air seemed to crackle with energy and potential, the radio fizzing with static, electricity dancing across his tongue. Whatever it was he felt himself cowering from it, instinctively cringing back to protect himself.

 

   Then, as quickly as it had come, the thing was gone.

 

   Through his panic he managed to guide the car to the edge of the road, then just sat gripping the wheel with whitened knuckles until his shaking began to fade and his heart stopped pounding quite so painfully.

 

   As soon as he thought he was safe to drive, he turned the car around and roared back towards the bunker. Whatever had just happened, he had to get back to Sam.

 

.o0o.

 

   Sam met Dean at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door. Cas had met him as he screeched to a stop along the road leading to town, and it was obvious from the overwhelming waves of fear and desperation that he had been halfway through explaining what had happened. After ten minutes of solid yelling Dean finally ran out of words and embraced Sam tightly. “Don’t ever do that again,” he grunted into his shoulder.

 

   Then Sam and Castiel took turns to explain the rest of the story. Getting to the part about how it was archangel Grace prompted another round of shouting, and by the time Dean ran out of steam on that topic Sam was exhausted from the constant buffering of Dean’s emotions.

 

   Sam had begun to tune out Dean’s words, he could feel his thoughts clearly enough. His soul was more visible by the second, Castiel’s block fading increasingly fast, and Sam was relieved to see that most of Dean’s anger and fear was _for_ him rather than about him. Eventually the swirling of the flaming soul calmed and Dean seemed to deflate.

 

   “So, what do we do?”

 

   Cas shrugged. “There’s nothing we _can_ do. There is no knowing what will happen, and there is no way to stop the piece of grace from trying to reassemble, not now the process has begun. I cannot do anything against an archangel’s Grace, I’m not powerful enough. I can’t even block the effects for Sam for more than ten minutes, and there is only a small fraction of the Grace present in him at the moment. All we can do is hope that the Grace retains enough of Gabriel’s knowledge not to destroy Sam’s soul.”

 

   “I don’t think it’s going to,” Sam put in, “I think I can control it now. I’m more afraid that I won’t be able to when more bits of it join.”

 

   Dean sank into the sofa as though he intended to become one with the furniture. “So now we wait?”

 

   “So now we wait.” Castiel agreed.

 

   Sam made to slink out of the room, away from the events of the past few hours, when Dean heaved himself back out of the sofa with what looked like a great effort and wrapped an arm awkwardly around his shoulders. “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it, alright?” Dean said, looking him in the eye with one hand resting heavy on his shoulder.

 

   “Now, I’m going the fuck to sleep. I’m too tired to deal with this shit.”

 

.o0o.

 

   A tense sort of calm settled over the bunker after that, as though everyone, even Dean, had finally accepted that absolutely nothing can be done. Either Sam would die, or he would not, and no additional research could answer any of their questions. Sam did try initially to convince them to leave for a few weeks for their own safely, but one look at Dean’s expression had told him the answer to that suggestion.

 

   Cas told them, to Dean’s obvious delight, that he would stay for as long as he was needed. Sam had to hide another grin when Dean insisted on preparing a room for him, even when it was pointed out by both of then that Cas didn’t sleep.

 

   Every day he had at more pieces of Grace join the part attached to his soul, his senses becoming more and more acute and his perception widening. He managed to resist the urge to leave his body again, but it was still tempting. He no longer needed to eat. He experienced the bizarre sensation of simultaneously being exhausted from constantly learning how to control the Grace he was not meant to have, while being as alert as though he had just chugged an entire jug of coffee. He suddenly become aware of old wounds that he had long since become accustomed to dealing with, like his dodgy knee from one of his first ghost hunts, when they would magically vanish. Although his healing was now supernaturally fast (even faster if he focused on it), the very top of his back and along his shoulder blades ached as though he had pulled a muscle.

 

   Sometimes, he found himself thinking as an angel rather than as a human. The first time that he caught himself referring to his body as his vessel was terrifying. Cas told him that it was because he was becoming less attached to and reliant on his body as the Grace inside him grew, but it didn’t stop the sensation that he was losing a part of himself. He hung on to aspects of his human life as others slipped away; although he no longer needed to eat, he still did and stuck to the same diet he had had before the transformation had begun. He still bickered with Dean over what film to watch and whether ketchup counted as a vegetable.

 

   As Cas explained to him, “It is less that you are becoming an angel, and more as though an angel is becoming you.” Cas assured them both that he would still be himself, just with new additional features. Dean, in the face of watching his brother morph into another species, had snorted and made a rather predictable insulting comment about Sam’s current features. Cas had given him one of his _you are not taking this seriously and I am disappointed_ looks. Sam had to purse his lips to hold in the snort of laughter that threatened to emerge, budding archangel or not.

 

   Castiel had been trying to help him to adjust to his new senses by teaching him how to properly stow his Grace. Apparently, angels in vessels kept most of their mojo in a pocket dimension, so that it wasn’t constantly at risk of bursting out and vaporising everyone in a ten meter radius. Or, in Sam’s case, most of the state.

 

   “You are holding the Grace too close to the surface, too close to your soul. That is why your eyes keep glowing and you are getting nosebleeds and headaches. If you do that for too long, you will damage your body. There. That’s better. Now, slice through to the other dimension and put the excess in there,” Cas instructed him, watching closely. With an effort, Sam stuffed his new metaphorical baggage into non-space.

 

   He blinked. Then again.

 

   “Oh, that’s better.” He sighed and slowly sagged with relief. He finally loosened his hold on the energy inside him and let it drop into the new well inside him. Now he wouldn’t have to worry that he would burst out of his skin at any second. The contours of the world were still too bright, and he could still see the outline of Cas’ true form and Dean’s soul where he was in the kitchen making sandwiches, but the sensory cacophony was muted slightly. He felt the headache that had been throbbing increasingly hard behind his eyes for the last few days begin to recede as the mental bombardment stopped.

 

   He turned back to Cas with a grateful grin. “Thanks, that’s so much better.”

 

   Cas smiled back at him with a quirk of his lips. “It was my pleasure, Sam. I only wish that I could help more.”

 

.o0o.

 

   Sam sat at the head of the table with a sandwich ignored in front of him. He watched Cas and Dean sitting on either side of him, and wondered how he had ever missed it.

 

   Yeah sure, there had been the near constant tension-fraught staring contests during the apocalypse that Sam was now going to have to put in the folder labelled ‘eye-sex’. He could excuse his lack of observation then because he hadn’t really been paying that much attention at the time, what with the end of days and all, but he was really kicking himself for not spotting it in more recent years. The coat thing during the year with the leviathan. The very drawn-out hugs. Cas’ smile every time Dean walked into the room. He had always thought that there might be something there, he wasn’t _stupid_ , but he had never imagined anything quite like _this._

 

   He supposed that it was probably more obvious with the tools he had at his disposal now. And to be honest, with the amount of tension his supernatural mojo’d eyes could see in the room, it was a surprise that even the times when they occasionally beat the shit out of each other hadn’t resulted in angry sex.

 

   From where he was sitting, he could see Cas’ tail (or one of them, anyway) curled around Dean’s ankle. Every time Dean so much as glanced his way all his feather-scales would ruffle in a shivery Mexican wave, picking up in a ruff around his shoulders. When they locked eyes the skeletal wings would curl forwards towards him, his aura blushing pink and forest green. Cas seemed to have forgotten that Sam could actually see all of this because he was posturing at Dean like there was no tomorrow, without actually moving his vessel at all. No wonder Dean was confused, really. Sam wondered absently if Cas had been doing this before Jimmy left the building. The poor guy had probably been happy to go to escape the sexual tension.

 

   “What do you think, Sam?”

 

   Sam’s attention was jerked back to the conversation that they had been having. “Huh?”

 

   Dean sighed, the very edges of his soul coiling a little in irritation. “I said, what do you think about maybe trying to find out more about the coven that did this in the first place? We could have missed something about them.” he frowned. “You’re not eating.”

 

   “Yeah, sorry. Everything tastes different.” All Sam could taste were molecules, oxygen and hydrogen and other elements bonded into complex compounds. Underneath the cacophony of sensation he could probably still taste the sandwich, but it was buried under so much surplus information that it was lost. Sam sighed. Peanut butter and jelly. It was his one of his favourites too.

 

   “But yeah, actually, that sounds like a great idea. We know there was nothing weird about the town and the coven had moved in recently. I mean, from the research we did at the time, it looked as though all of them got killed in that blast, didn’t it?” Dean nodded. “Well, we could look around to see if they had any unusual connections. Cas already said that that magic was way too advanced for them, too complicated. Maybe they didn’t find it. Maybe they had a visit from whatever gave them that spell?”

 

   Sam frowned. “Good thought. What about that woman? You know, all those reports of that blonde woman we were following before they got me? I was pretty out of it at the time, but I’m sure the only blond one was a guy. Maybe she’s our monster?”

 

   Something was pinging on the edge of his consciousness, trying to get in. A memory he couldn’t quite focus on. He reached out, trying to remember, but it kept slipping out of his reach. Then, suddenly, it came to him.

 

   “Wait! I remember now! There was a pair of women at the diner, the one we went in on the way to Jody’s. I thought there was something strange about them, and one of them was definitely blonde.”

 

   Dean looked sceptical. “Are you sure, Sam? I didn’t feel anything off in there. They were probably just random women.”

 

   “No, Dean, now I think about it they must have been shielding themselves somehow because I forgot about them, actually forgot, and my memory has been absolutely perfect for the last week. I haven’t forgotten anything. Like, nothing. Must be an angelic thing. Anyway, we need to find those two. I bet they’re both in on it.”

 

   Dean raised an eyebrow and took another unnecessarily large bite of his sandwich and spoke around it. “If you’re sure, Sam. Yeah, so now I’m going to get stalking blond chicks added to my rap sheet. Fantastic.”


	8. Stable as a Rainbow Elephant on a Tricycle

   Sam stood stock still in the middle of the range, arm still outstretched from where he had stopped firing. He wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there; his legs no longer tired as he listened. Well, not really _listening_ , exactly; there was nothing to hear. It was more like feeling. But sensation had never been this intense.

 

   He could feel the fabric of his clothing abrasive as gravel against his skin. Every time he moved it wore him away, cells on the outside of his body scraped and scratched against the rough surfaces. But that was alright, he could feel at the base of his skin where new cells were being born each second to replace the ones lost.

 

   He had never paid much attention to the rhythm of his body before, but now he couldn’t take his mind off it. It was distracting. His heart beat in his chest, the muscles contracting, molecules constantly being formed and broken down. He could count the cells as they died and split and grew, he Knew each and every single one of them. He could feel his own thoughts pass along the neurons in his brain, ions flowing in and out in waves of potential energy.

 

   He let the Grace crackle close to the surface of his body for a moment longer, then released it with a sigh. The world dropped back into a flatter, less colourful reality without the energy playing in his veins. He couldn’t help fiddling with it, pulling it out of the hidden space, the bottomless well he usually tucked it into. It was just so fascinating to see the world with fresh eyes. He wondered now how angels ever adjusted to living inside vessels. The only thing more overwhelming as a human than as an angel in his opinion was the emotions, which he had noticed were different during his brief out of body experiences. Yes, he could still experience most of the human emotional range, but although they were almost as intense they didn’t _last._ Guilt didn’t hang around, sadness didn’t fester. Emotions too deeply rooted in the body’s reactions, such as panic, also didn’t have as much effect when you were essentially a ball of plasma.

 

   Sometimes he felt the energy bubbling up his throat like rising magma, like a geyser about to burst, as though he was only a very thin skin between the churning destruction and the world. Sizzling electricity arced between his ribs and ropes of it coiled around his heart. But most of the time, like now, it settled back into the infinite space between dimensions without too much protest, only leaving the last lingering dregs running through him.

 

   Sometimes, when he had needed to expend some tension before he had his Grace, he had come down to the shooting range. There wasn’t much point now. He hadn’t needed to take his mind off a single thing he had been worrying about while he shot the target dead centre with every bullet. Angels apparently took multitasking to a whole new level. Ah, the wonders of an expanding consciousness. He started to put away the guns, because if one thing hadn’t changed about this whole scenario, it would be that Dean would still be on his ass about proper gun protocol if he didn’t.

 

   He could feel the Grace all the time now, a constant presence rather than one he had to reach for. Cas had announced that the flow of energy had bound them even more tightly; apparently, it was now a part of him, _his_ grace. He was officially some strange sort of fledgling archangel. And he believed it. He could feel it shifting like another limb, if a rather uncoordinated one, but he was slowly learning to control it. It was him now, and he had accepted it.

 

   By now the changes caused by the Grace were almost too numerous to count. He had given up keeping track of them, there were just too many, and new ones appeared faster than he could catalogue them. Dean had banned him from the gym until he could control his new strength after he had destroyed the fifth punching bag and bent a set of monkey bars in half by accident. Lights would flicker if he started getting too agitated, his Grace boiling to the surface. His perception was almost unrecognisable as the same world he had seen through human eyes. Apparently, archangels saw the world in a searing, overwhelming scream of light. Looking at Dean was painful, and Cas was almost as bad but in a different way. He could touch a door handle and know every person who had touched it before, the ghosts of long dead men still walked the halls. Everything was light, and brightness, and sometimes he had to just curl into a ball on his bed and just _quake_ under the sensation of the entire world crushing down on him.

 

   But for the most part, he was managing, just the same as he always did.

 

   Mostly.

 

.o0o.

 

   “Hey, Sam, come and look at this.”

 

   Sam levered himself up and went around the table to where Dean was glancing between his laptop and some aged newspaper clippings. Dean was actually managing to concentrate on the research better than he could now, which was a first. He just kept getting distracted by noticing something new every five minutes.

 

   “I found something on that blonde woman you mentioned. Something about a faith healer. She rolls into town, people disappear, six months later she vanishes again, and even though it keeps happening nobody connects the dots or even really looks into the cases. The bodies, if they ever find them that is, always have slit wrists, and died months after they went missing but usually from malnourishment rather than blood loss. Look,” he pointed at a yellowed article with a slightly blurred picture, “Is that her?”

 

   “Yeah, Dean, I think that’s the woman from the diner, but… this is from fifty years ago.”

 

   “Exactly. And everything about this looks real familiar. What creature do we know that is immortal, snatches its victims then cuts their wrists and drains their essence?”

 

   Sam thought about it for a second, then the answer slid together like a jigsaw puzzle. “Grigori. She’s a Grigori.”

 

   Dean nodded. “Yeah, I think so. I remember from some of the people we talked to that she had turned up in the town we were in about maybe a week before we arrived. So maybe it was her who gave the spell to the witches? I mean, it fits. Only angels would have that kind of access to Enochian magic, and only ones who had been on earth for a long, long time would know enough about Celtic runes to have combined them with the sigils like that. From what it looks like, the coven were usually pretty low level. You know, paying off loans, promotions, good luck, the usual stuff. Nothing like this.”

 

   “Maybe she was controlling them?” Sam suggested, “Or maybe they thought the ritual was for something else. They probably had no idea what they were really doing. Especially the whole dying part. I can’t imagine anyone being thrilled about being turned to charcoal.”

 

   They had no idea where the Grigori (or group of them) was now, but they threw themselves back into the research with new vigour. After so long with nothing to chase, they finally had a lead.

 

…… …… …… …… ……

 

   Dean was worried about Sam.

 

   He knew what would happen if he brought it up. Hell, Sam probably already knew with his freaky mind reading. Sam would brush him off with an annoyed ‘I’m fine Dean’ and that would be the end of that. But screw that, he was a big brother, worrying was practically in the job description.

 

   He was well aware that he had no way of empathising even the slightest bit with what his brother was going through. He had never even been possessed. But he had known Sam for his whole life, enough to know when he was struggling.

 

   Sam would never complain to Dean. He never had before. He held things in, tried not to wince when his wounds were stitched, never did more than grunt or hiss when he was thrown into walls or was slashed with claws. As a rule, the worse the pain was the quieter Sam got. Only when shit truly hit the fan would his brother make any noise.

 

   Dean had been watching Sam get progressively quieter for the last week and a half. He knew it was getting bad when he caught himself missing being bitched at for leaving mug rings on the wooden furniture. He knew that Cas was trying to help, he was helping, but not enough to hold back the storm that he could feel brewing on the horizon, and he had a feeling it was going to be a big one.

 

   The worst part about it was the helplessness; he knew that he couldn’t do anything for Sam directly. His usual method of stuffing him full of stew wouldn’t work this time. Instead he threw himself into research hunting down the Grigori. That was who was to blame for the state Sam was in, he could feel it in his bones.

 

   Dean just hoped that they could find the son of a bitch before the storm broke. Then maybe they could get some answers.

 

…… …… …… …… ……

 

   Cas and Dean were at it again.

 

   Not actually _at it_ , of course, that would require a level of emotional acknowledgment that they just didn’t possess. No, instead they were having yet another round of ocular intercourse, punctuated by a whole string of miscommunicated body language.

 

   Over many rounds of healing Sam knew that the hand shaped scar on Dean’s shoulder had faded and eventually disappeared, but if he gave his eyesight an extra little kick he could still see it, etched into his soul in shining blue. It pulsed slowly, in time with the bright light at the centre of Cas’ Grace, a now visible sign of their ‘profound bond’.

 

   Whatever they were discussing in quiet voices (Sam could have listened in but he was getting good at blocking thoughts now) caused Dean’s blinding soul to dim, ever so slightly. In response Cas’ wings arched and spread, and would have cocooned Dean completely if they had actually had any feathers on them. Sam had rolled his eyes so much in the last week he was worried that if he did it any more his eyeballs would plop out of their sockets into his lap. Did it really count as PDA if he nobody else could see it?

 

   Eventually, he got tired of watching the glacial progression of Cas and Dean’s relationship.

 

   “I’m going out,” he said curtly, “Off for a run.” He wasn’t sure if they actually heard him over their staring competition. At least when Dean was occupied with Cas he couldn’t tease him about tying up his hair. Sam snorted and climbed the steps leading to the outside world.

 

   He took a deep breath, stretching his muscles. He started off at a slow jog, feeling the protein fibres in his muscles locking on to each other, sliding past, locking on again. He hadn’t been running as much as he should in the last few weeks, and his calves protested, but soon they warmed up and he picked up speed. He revelled in the sensations of his body operating, a well-oiled machine that he had been running all his life but was only just now realising how it actually worked. He could now maintain it automatically, but it was the principle of the thing.

 

   He ran the two mile circular path he had trodden down around the Bunker twice before he decided to stop for a rest. He had reached where he crossed the track that lead back to town, and walked along it to cool down. Even the crisp, fresh scent of clean air and a breeze on his skin hadn’t been quite enough to stop his thoughts from buzzing around his skull like agitated bees. Maybe the restlessness he was feeling was to do with lack of company rather than physical inactivity. He needed desperately to talk to someone who wasn’t Dean, Cas or the rainbow-coloured elephant in the room that no one would acknowledge. He was tired of being the third wheel on that particularly unstable tricycle.

 

   Along the side of the road there was a large rock just perfect for sitting on, and he perched on that while he scrolled down and selected Charlie’s contact with a grin. He stretched his calves out while he listened to the tone.

 

   “Hello, this is the queen of Moondoor. Who’s calling?”

 

   “Hi there, Charlie.”

 

   “Hey Sam! Oh my god, it’s so nice to hear from you!” Charlie’s voice chirped at him from the speaker.

 

   “You too. It sounds noisy where you are. You’re not in the middle of a hunt are you? I don’t want to interrupt anything.” on the other end of the line there was the sound of loud chattering, broken up by whoops and screams.

 

   “Oh. Um. Nowhere…” Her shifty, faux innocent tone didn’t fool Sam for a second. He hadn’t realised how accustomed he had become to being able to read the minds of the people he was talking with, but now that he couldn’t it was a pain.

 

   “Spit it out, Charlie.”

 

   “Yeah, okay, I’m at the supernatural convention. Didn’t want to tell you, thought you might take it the wrong way.”

 

   Sam groaned and tilted his head towards the sky. Why did the universe hate him so much? Was this about letting Lucifer out, or was it still working through his extensive list of other sins?

 

   “Yeah yeah, I know, the books were awful and your lives are hard. But on the other hand, the opportunities for cosplay are just great. I joined up with Alex, you know, Jody’s kid? Anyway, her and a few friends came. I’m being you and she’s dressed as Dean, and I’ve got to say I think we’re the best ones here. You would think so, given we’re modelled on the actual thing. We’ve seen two yellow eyed demons, vampires, werewolves, and there’s a wendigo over there getting coffee trying to chat up an Impala. Also, there are more couples dressed as Dean and Castiel here than I know what to do with. It’s, like, a whole category in the costume competition. I was thinking about taking a picture of them all and sending it to them. Do you think it would help them get a hint?”

 

   “Probably not unfortunately,” Sam sighed, fiddling with a piece of grass between his fingers as he grinned, imagining Dean’s expression. “Dean would just go into denial. I mean, you saw them the last time you were here. Dean’s confused about his feelings because he actually _cares_ about someone and they care about him back, rather than just wanting to have sex. It’s really sort of depressing that he can’t recognise genuine affection. And Cas doesn’t want to say anything, because he _knows_ that Dean is still in denial. Right now they’re back in the bunker staring each other into eternity.”

 

   Charlie’s sigh came through the phone slightly tinny. “You’re right, that is just sad. Ah well, worth a shot. Let me know if I can help. I’ve got a few very interesting fan sites that I could recommend.”

 

   “I bet you do,” Sam grinned wider, then shuddered slightly at the horrifying reality of the amount of porn about them on the internet.

 

   “Anyway, how are you? I got a strange call from Jody, something about a ghost and more angels?”

 

   “Well…” Sam was wondering how to begin with explaining the whole fiasco when he saw a distant car approaching him from the direction of town. It stopped a little distance away from him and a figure opened the door.

 

   “Hey, Charlie, can I call you back later? There’s a woman coming towards me, I think she might be lost.”

 

   “Oh, that’s okay, I’ve got to go anyway. Hey, Alex! Looks like they managed to get a hold of a recording of a play a school did! Catch you later, Sam!”

 

   The line cut off with a snick. Sam stood, brushing off the backs of his jeans where moss from the rock stuck to him as the woman jogged closer, her long blonde hair fanning out slightly.

 

   Sam frowned as she got closer; nowadays he could almost always see a bright light shining out of people before they even got close, usually before he could even see them. But there was nothing coming from the woman, just scrambling emptiness. There was something about her preventing him from thinking straight. The world warped around her slightly as his thoughts fuzzed.

 

   _Shielding,_ he thought dizzily, and she was much closer than he thought she was, she was right on top of him-

 

   Then she clapped a palm marked with a dripping red rune to his forehead, there was a flash of pain and the universe blinked away as though someone had switched the lights off.

 

 

 


	9. Just Another Tuesday for Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more torture in this chapter, just sayin'.

   Sam came back to consciousness sharply with a smack of cold liquid. He sucked in panicked lungfulls of air and shook his head as the water which had been flung over his unconscious body sluiced off him, soaking his shirt, trickling into his eyes and dripping off the end of his nose. Immediately he noted a ripping pain in his arms and a sharper sting at his wrists where cold metal manacles were attached, dangling him from the ceiling. The length of chain allowed him to stand only on his tiptoes and he wobbled, desperately trying to stay upright. The burning numbness in his arms told him that he had been there for some time already.

 

   He glanced around wildly, trying to find whoever had thrown water on him in the black shadows that he suddenly realised his eyes should be able to penetrate. His arms were weak, and there was no straining, boiling geyser of energy inside him that he realised now he had become almost used to. Its absence was almost unnerving. What had happened to his Grace?

 

   The room he was in was small and dark, with boarded windows and a bare wooden floor. It looked oddly familiar, and he had a sinking sense of Déjà vu. This was the room from his dream. There was a dark figure in front of him and slightly to the left, blocking most of the meagre light that was coming through the slats. He squinted, cursing his diminished eyesight, and they stepped closer.

 

   It was a woman, a young, blonde woman. A rather familiar woman.

 

   “You.” He said, his voice as controlled and sharp as it is possible to be while dangling from the ceiling by your wrists. The blonde woman from the diner, still wearing the same clothes as she had been over a week and a half ago, stepped into full view.

 

   “Yes,” she said calmly, almost civilly, as though they were having this conversation in a bright café somewhere instead of a rotting house with him tied up. “You slept for a little longer than I hoped you would. I believe we have almost met a few times now.” She leaned forwards, and there was a cold, vicious blood thirst in her smile that made a jarring contrast with her tone. “Not so easy to see in the dark now without all that Grace running through your veins is it, little fledgling?”

 

   Sam tried to shrug, then winced as the muscles in his shoulders protested. Maybe, if he could keep her talking long enough, Dean and Cas would have enough time to track him down. “No, but I’m used to it. We’ve met a Grigori before, and I don’t need Grace to gank things like you. What did you do with it anyway?”

 

   She laughed, throwing her head back, and the carefree noise was so alien in the setting that it sent a shiver down his spine.

 

   “So brave! Or stupid. Mostly stupid. Don’t worry, I’ve got all of that pretty Grace locked away. You won’t be able to touch it. I’m rather good with runes, you see.”

 

   She gestured towards the indistinct black marks on the floor and walls. Sam couldn’t make out the details, but they seemed to form a circle around where he was hanging.

 

   She stepped close, running one elegant manicured finger along his cheek, as though she was inspecting livestock. Sam didn’t react, keeping his eyes focused on her. She stepped back, huffing slightly in disappointment, as though she had wanted to see him try to futilely fight against his bindings.

 

   “What are you going to do with me?”

 

   “You?” She laughed, stepping back. “I’m going to kill you. Eventually. When I’ve drained you dry. We created you, you know; me and a few friends. Those pitiful insects that you called witches didn’t know what they were letting themselves in for, of course.  We knew you would survive, though. Two birds with one stone, really.”

 

   “So you got them to do your dirty work and then you killed them off?” _Got to keep her monologueing…_

 

   “Of course,” The words were casual, as though they were discussing the weather. “We Watchers don’t like to get our hands dirty.”

 

   Suddenly she lunged forwards, grabbing his chin in her hands, the sharp nails digging into his flesh. “Of course I haven’t had much choice these past few millennia,” she hissed into his face, “Having to feed off the filthy, polluted energy of human souls just to stay alive. You tarnished, miserable beings. After that, drinking down that Grace inside you is going to be the first taste of pure heaven’s energy since we were cast down to walk this vile planet. I am going to _consume_ you.” She gave him a smile that reminded Sam of the leviathan, then drew back her arm and punched, her fist landing on his cheekbone and snapping his head around. He grunted as he felt his teeth slice into his tongue, and there was a sting and the taste of iron in his mouth.

 

   “Oh, but you did such a good job for us as well. We knew we were lucky to find you, I mean this whole thing wouldn’t have worked with anyone else. We didn’t mean to lose you after we bound it to you, of course, but it’s all worked out in the end, hasn’t it? And we hit the jackpot with that Grace. We had no idea at first, you see, that it was a piece of an archangel. That asshole Gabriel had more tricks up his sleeve than anyone knew about.

 

   “But then you went and put it back together for us! Not only that, but you pumped it full of energy too!” she laughed. “Of course, you’re not nearly as powerful as if you were an _actual_ archangel, poor little mutated Frankenstein thing that you are. You are not one of us, not really. Stunted by the soul in you, probably.” She trailed her hand over his shoulder in a mockery of consolation, a juxtaposition to the violence in her cold eyes. “Not that it matters. The energy is more than enough for us to rule in this paradigm. When me and my sisters are done feeding, we will ascend to _gods!_ We will take heaven by storm and feed from the souls there for the rest of eternity. The age of the archangels is over. No one will be able to stop us.”

 

   There was a slightly insane light glimmering behind her irises. Sam glared his defiance and spat a mouthful of blood. Droplets smattered across her face and stained the front of her blouse, but she didn’t flinch. Her smile didn’t dim either, but Sam saw a spark of temper flare in her cold blue eyes, determined to make him regret his actions.

 

   “The others aren’t here yet, but I don’t think that they’ll mind if I take the first sample before they get here.”

 

   Sam watched, helpless as she reached up, unable to anything else but squirm. He couldn’t hold back a yell as she drew a shallow cut down the inside of his arm with a small dagger. Blood trickled down, soaking into his already damp shirt, but no grace emerged from the wound. She frowned and reached up again, cutting deeper this time. His agonised groan was louder in the small space, and memories of the cage flashed in front of him, a river of his own blood filling his vision and his ears ringing with the echoes of screams.

 

   When he had managed to gasp enough air into his lungs and the world had stopped spinning again, she was still staring at him with a confused pout on her face.

 

   “Why isn’t it working?” She muttered, seemingly to herself.

 

   “Have you tried turning it off and on again?” Sam asked weakly, then choked slightly as she silenced him with an invisible hand around his throat. She put her hand to his chest again, and even though he couldn’t access it, he could feel the Grace twisting and turning inside him to evade her stinging touch, always out of reach.

 

  Eventually she drew her hand away with an annoyed hiss.

 

   Sam let out a tiny laugh. “You can’t reach it, can you? Your runes lock it too deep inside, you can’t physically reach.” She gave him a look that was pure venom.

 

   Sam met her gaze, looking her dead in the eye. “You’ll never get it. I’m never going to give it to you, no matter how many of your friends turn up. I was in the Cage for over two hundred years, I’m not going to cave to torture, not before my brother finds me anyway. You can’t reach the Grace while I’m bound by the runes, and if you unbind me I’m going to kill you. That’s a promise.”

 

   She stood unnaturally still for a moment, a look of steely fury on her face and the promise of a slow death in her eyes.

 

   “Well,” she said primly, stepping right up to him, “Your death should release the Grace and I’ll be able to harvest at least some of it. I put in the most leg work for this, the energy is mine by rights. I’ll still be more powerful than any angel alive, even with a fraction of your energy. The others will just have to go without. I suppose that there’s no sense in keeping you alive then, if you’re no longer of any use to us.” She began to draw her blade. Sam braced himself for the blow he had been having nightmares about for weeks.

 

   There was a sudden thump and a crash, causing both of them to startle. In a horrible parody of the situation with the witches just two weeks earlier, Dean kicked through the rotten hinges of the door in a rush of splinters and stormed in, Cas hot on his heels. But this time Sam knew that there would be no miraculous survival, she was too fast and there was too much distance between them, the sword would kill him where the Grace had not. He was as good as dead.

 

   He saw her smile with bared teeth and there was a flash of silver as she lunged forwards, stabbing straight for his heart.

 

   Sam felt a jolt as the hilt of the blade hit his ribs. He gazed down at it, his brain not really believing what his eyes were telling him. Then, the damp redness began to spread, like a rose unfurling. He felt the rasping bubble of punctured lungs on his next breath, and he knew his chest couldn’t hold the air but was panicking, helplessly, instinctively gasping for oxygen, pulling the taste of iron onto his tongue.

 

   A roaring filled his ears as though he was underwater, and there was a terrible slithering sensation as though his insides were being sliced up and sucked out through the great gaping hole in his ribcage. So much blood now. He couldn’t breathe, and his chest hurt with a deep ache and a sharp cutting sting when he moved. From very far away he heard a loud noise, a banging and scuffling and yelling, and he tried to raise his head but it was too heavy and he gave up.

 

   Then hands were on the sides of his numb face. With the breath still leaking out of him he managed to choke a word.

 

   “Sigils…”

 

   There was still noise in his ears but he couldn’t hear past the dull rushing of water, or was it blood? No, that was leaking out of him, leaving vivid crimson droplets on the floor…

 

   His eyes suddenly focused past Dean, past the prone body with its blond hair fanned out around it painting the floor with its own bright stain, past Castiel who was hacking at the dark marks on the walls with his angel blade.

 

   There was a man in the centre of the room, with a gaunt face and a long nose, his pallid skin made even paler by the dark suit he wore. Everything else seemed to blur and smear, but the man still stood out in sharp, clean focus. With a small, almost kind smile on his face, he reached out with the hand not leaning on the cane with a calm expectance. The pain was dimming, the sensations coming from further and further away. Slowly, hesitantly, Sam reached forward…

 

   Cas gave a cry of success and obliterated the last sigil with a slash of his angel blade. Death vanished with a snap and a faintly irritated but not overly surprised expression. Sam felt a tug next to his heart, and then a rush of cool, which turned to a cold torrent through his veins. The darkness of the house burst violently into brightness and the light of soul and Grace as his awareness expanded like a shock wave. He couldn’t let the excess energy go, not with Dean standing right in front of him, so the only place for it to go was in. After being cut off, the Grace was almost overwhelming again, there was too much and he knew it was shining out of him-

 

   A bright movement drew his eye. A piece of Grace, the last piece he knew instinctively, hovered in front of him. It bobbed and floated towards him slowly until it was level with his chest.

 

   The universe seemed to hold its breath for a long second.

 

   Then, the light darted in between his ribs, just like the first piece had. He felt it meld seamlessly with the rest of him and it shone bright as a star. It had grown so big inside him and he was stretched-to-bursting thin, a balloon skin of soul over the bright-burning Grace, and as it pulsed and hummed he thought that he might split and the light would go spilling out, burning everything in its path. He prepared himself for oblivion

 

   But the light, instead of burning through him, gently pressed against him, feeding him a small stream of energy, almost as if it knew that too much at once would destroy him, almost as if it was _protecting_ him. Slowly the energy flow increased until he was burning gloriously too and the rest of the world seemed dark and cold. He was suddenly struck with the urge to leave his damaged-broken-vessel behind. It was a shell, a chrysalis, no longer needed and empty, its heart stopped and hot-red-lifeblood spilt onto the floor. He had a moment of panic; he could not leave, trapped in this useless shell by the chest-sigils.

 

   Wait. Where was the thread? The tie that had prevented him from leaving his flesh before? He looked closer.

 

   The cold-bright-heavenly blade, the one that had been buried in his vessel’s chest, had cut neatly through the lines of the very smallest circular sigil, exactly over his heart. He wondered for a second how the heavenly blade had not killed him, but one of his other heads spoke up that he had been separated from his Grace at the time. He had been dying as a human. And in any case this was the blade of a Grigori, not an archangel, and therefore couldn’t kill him no matter how damaged his Grace was.

 

   The tie was gone.

 

   The tie was _gone,_ and he was free.

 

   So the angel Samuel gathered the corners of his Grace and sang his jubilation at his freedom as his brand new wings erupted from his back and he _flew._

 


	10. Just a Little Divine Intervention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has kudosed and commented! It's very appreciated, gives me a thrill every time I have an update.
> 
> This one's good and long but needed some extra polishing, hence why it took so long. Sorry about that. It starts off as Dean's POV, before the events of chapter 9.

   It had taken them two days to find the house.

 

   Dean had finally discovered that Sam had actually vanished hours after he had been taken. When he hadn’t reappeared from his run, they thought that maybe he had gone into town (except that there were no cars missing). Eventually, an uneasy feeling in his gut told him to track Sam’s footsteps to where they suddenly stopped by a large boulder. The gravel of the road was furrowed, as though something large and body-shaped had been dragged away. Cas had confirmed that he could sense that another Grigori had been there. Then there had been a panic of epic proportions before the stone-cold calm of hunter mode set in.

 

   He had called everybody they knew, and finally when he got to Charlie she told him about when she had phoned him and detailed the reason he had hung up. She offered to help, but Dean managed to persuade her to stay where she was. This was getting more and more dangerous, they didn’t know what they were walking into and they had no idea of how powerful the blonde woman was or if there were any more Grigori with her, and having more people with them wouldn’t help them find Sam faster.

 

   Eventually Cas had been able to pick up a trail. Apparently the Grace left a mark, a signature, and although it was faint Cas told him in his usual grave tone that it was trackable.

 

   Dean’s spirits soared. After hours of frantic searching, even hearing that there was a lead was music to his ears.

 

   “Cas, I could kiss you!”

 

   There were a few awkward seconds of silence, and Dean realised what he had just said. He felt his face instantly began to burn as he stuttered, “Cas, I… I…”

 

   But Cas, rather than looking revolted, or freaked out, or any of the other emotions that Dean had seen whenever he imagined this (normally as a deathbed confession), Cas looked… Hopeful?

 

   Dean walked hesitantly closer and placed a hand on Cas’ shoulder, squeezing gently. Yeah, that was definitely a spark in those deep blue eyes, and the corners of his mouth curved up into a smile. It suddenly occurred to Dean how few times he had actually seen Cas smile. Sometimes those rare expressions were for Sam, but those were different somehow.

 

   He realised that Cas reserved that particular smile for him. He smiled back, ignoring the way that his heart was skipping in his chest and the strange squirming of his stomach.

 

   They stayed like that for a few seconds, or it might have been a small eternity. Standing this close to another man while staring into their eyes should have been awkward, should have made him uncomfortable. But it didn’t. It felt natural.

 

   _Maybe because Cas isn’t actually a guy,_ a voice in the back of his head that sounded remarkably like Sam whispered sarcastically. And anyway, Cas had always been different.

 

   _Maybe I can have this. Just this once._

 

   Eventually he sighed and released Cas’ shoulder, his fingers lingering on the lapels of the trenchcoat without his permission. Now wasn’t the time. Maybe later, when he wasn’t trying to save his brother from monsters trying to eat his soul, he could investigate the funny things that being near Cas did to his insides.

 

   The story of Dean’s life.

 

.o0o.

 

   They lost the trail several times and had to turn back on themselves. By the end of the day Dean had been driving for ten hours and was getting more and more frantic. Eventually Cas managed to persuade him to let him drive, and he grudgingly caught a few hours of sleep in the passenger seat.

 

   As they got closer, the trail got stronger and Dean’s impatience got harder to ignore. The hours seemed to drag for eternity, but Cas’ directions from shotgun got more certain and precise. Finally, a dirt road rattled under the tires as the Impala pulled up a short distance from a dilapidated farmhouse.

 

   It was almost sunset and the flat golden light cast long shadows as they got out of the car, making everything seem more solid than usual. Dean made sure he had his gun and an angel blade before nodding at Cas and they stalked towards the front door.

 

   It was unlocked and swung inwards without a single creak, the hinges more oiled then the state of the house suggested they should be. It looked as though Cas’ spidey senses were right on target. They crept into a darkened hallway. Dean caught Cas’ eye and flicked his fingers. Cas nodded and went to investigate the dust shrouded living room.

 

   Dean walked on to the back of the house, avoiding any floorboards that looked as though they might make a sound and give him away. At the end of the corridor there was a rotted panelled door, but unlike the others it was closed and when he gently tried the knob it was locked. When he stopped and listened he swore that he heard movement and voices in the room beyond. Cas emerged from checking the living room shaking his head and Dean waved him over, raising a finger to his lips.

 

   He put an ear to the wood, just in time to hear a voice talking, muffled but discernible. “Well, I suppose there’s no point in keeping you alive then.”

 

   Dean didn’t even have time to think. In one movement he drew back and aimed a heavy, desperate kick. The lock held but the force of it blew the door off its hinges and it crashed sideways as he stormed in.

 

   He took in the sight in front of him in a second. There was Sam in the middle of the room, suspended from the ceiling by chains, red dribbling down from a deep cut on his forearm and another on his head. One side of his face was bruised and swollen, and his eyes were fixed on Dean with a mixture of relief and horror.

 

   In front of him there was a young, blonde woman. Dean wondered for half a second if she was another captive, but that doubt disappeared in a second when her surprised expression morphed into a savage smile as she turned back to Sam. He saw the glint of a knife.

 

   “No!” he yelled, leaping forwards, but he was too late. He saw the flash of silver, and then there was crimson soaking Sam’s shirt. It was all that he could see, the scarlet hue seemed to fill his vision as the woman turned to him, drawing the blade from Sam’s chest with a sickening sucking sound. He brought up his own angel blade to block her first swing and almost buckled under her supernatural strength. Cas joined him to fend off her strikes, and despite the advantage of a longer blade her smile transformed into a snarl as they ducked and wove around each other.

 

   Finally, Cas knocked her sword to the side and Dean darted inside her guard. He stabbed upwards, twisting the blade under her ribs until the light poured from her eyes and mouth on a scream.

 

   Dean was moving away before her body had even dropped to the floor, stumbling towards Sam. He could hear the bubbling rasp of his laboured breathing, and crimson blood dripped from his lips. He couldn’t reach the shackles, couldn’t let him down. He reached up with trembling hands and cupped his little brother’s face. Sam’s eyes wandered over him, not quite seeming to focus. _Not again,_ he thought, memories of Sam slumping into his arms in that deserted town flashing in front of him.

 

   “You’re going to be alright, Sammy, you’re going to be fine, just hang in there. Cas, get over here!”

 

   Sam’s eyelids fluttered and he twitched, then he drew a rattling breath and sighed out a word, “Sigils…” More blood poured from his mouth and his chest convulsed as he tried to cough. Dean could smell it rusty in the air between them.

 

   He heard Cas take a sharp breath behind him, then a metallic thudding. He turned his body to see Cas looking frantically around the room, then darting over to a wall and obliterating some dark lines with a slash of his blade. “Cas, what are you doing?”

 

   “I can’t heal your brother,” Cas explained, looking around for another, “But he can heal himself. These runes are restraining his Grace. If I can destroy the net…”

 

   “Yeah well hurry up, we’re running out of time!” Dean’s gaze was fixed on Sammy’s face, silently begging him to hang on as his laboured breathing began to slow. His eyes slid past Dean and focused on the middle distance, and to his horror he felt Sam’s pulse under his fingers falter.

 

   “No, NO SAM DON’T YOU DARE! YOU GET BACK HERE!”

 

   “Dean! Last one, get back!” he heard one last metallic slash and then Cas was dragging him backwards with one arm across his chest, ignoring his struggles. Half a second later the wards must have failed because a blue flash flared around the circle then flickered out. There was a second of calm.

 

   Then a rush of wind blew into the room, flattening them backwards against the wall as it swept past them, forming a small tornado around Sam’s body. It whipped his long hair around his face, his shirt coming untucked and flapping violently. He swung wildly from his chains, feet dragging on the bare boards. Dean heard the piercing tone and put his hands over his ears, screwing his eyes shut. He felt Cas clap a hand over his eyes as well but he could still see the blinding light of the Grace as it screamed into the room and funnelled towards his brother.

 

   The light died slightly and Cas withdrew his hand. Sam was rigid in the chains, his muscles bulging as he stared straight ahead, unseeing. His eyes glowed and swirled like pools of mercury and Dean could see the light at the back of his throat and through his ribs. Dean hesitated, wanting to go to his brother but self-preservation held him back.

 

   He felt more than saw the last piece of Grace as it darted through the room, too fast to see with mortal eyes, but the result was spectacular and immediate. Sam went limp. Then he lit up from inside, more intense than ever before, as though he was _made_ of light. Dean screwed his eyes shut again, but even through his eyelids he could see the great shadows of enormous wings unfurling and spreading, shaking themselves off, the light tinged pink by his blood.

 

   A great joyous pealing ring sounded out, ripping through the air. He clapped his hands over his ears but it didn’t seem to block the noise. The room was shaking, the whole house quaking on its foundations. The windows shattered and the boards over them were blown off, and the hair on his arms stood on end like the very air itself was electrified, as though lightning was about to strike.

 

   Sure enough, the light intensified and the sound was so loud that it felt like it was boiling his very soul. He thought he might have heard Cas shouting, but it was overwhelmed by one last bright flash.

 

   The light and sound abruptly cut out.

 

   Dean cautiously peeled open his eyes, his ears still ringing. Cas was crouched over him, his trench coat ripped in places and a cut on his forehead. Past Cas’ legs Sam was hanging from the shackles, swinging slightly, deathly still and silent. His head hung limply and red dripped slowly from his bottom lip onto the floor boards. The room was dark and quiet and the air smelt like ozone and burning hair.

 

   “What. The hell. Was that?” Dean heard his voice come out as a harsh whisper, as if anything louder might invite the chaos to return. He tried to move and found that he was on the floor, his muscles starting to cramp from where he was curled into a tight, protective ball. “Sammy,” he whimpered. He had to get up. He had to reach Sam.

 

   Cas was already shaking himself off and getting to his own feet, his expression grim, holding a hand out to Dean. “That _was_ Sam. No, don’t worry about the body, he’s not in it any more. He’s still alive, Dean, do you hear me? Come on. We need to hurry, we have to get out of here, now.” But Dean couldn’t seem to peel his eyes away from the hanging figure.

 

   Cas strode off out of the front door with his coat flapping, and Dean wrenched himself away from the broken shell of what had been his baby brother and followed him on shaky legs, too shocked to ask questions and still wondering what the hell was going on.

 

.o0o.

 

   They stepped out onto the rotted porch. Night had fully fallen while they were inside, although the sky was still stained with blue and indigo on its western edge. Cas closed his eyes briefly, head tilted back, then squinted around before looking directly upwards and stopping, staring into the distance. “There he is.”

 

   Dean looked where Cas was pointing. The light he was indicating had the same diamond radiance as the stars around it, but it far outshone them. And it was getting bigger.

 

   No, getting closer.

 

   Soon it got close enough that he had to squint at the glare, even though it must have still have been miles away. Cas shouted up to it in the rough syllables of Enochian and it seemed to stop and somehow the light lessened as it turned itself inside out. Then it rushed closer again.

 

   As it got nearer, Dean realised that he had made a serious error in judging its size and speed. It was immense, but as it got closer it shrank down, getting smaller and smaller until it came to within ten meters of them and began circling them eagerly, fluctuating from the size of a large dog to a horse. Cas said more to it in the rough tongue, and it seemed to settle down, coming to a stop in front of them.

 

   It was roughly spherical, and it seemed to be made of shining liquid. Or maybe it was a gas, or flames, he couldn’t quite describe it, but the way it moved deliberately made him sure that it was alive. It sparkled, and he realised that it was actually a layer of brilliant liquid with a corona of light gilding the edges, stretched over a glowing orb inside. Dean just stood and stared at it, awestruck.

 

   The thing was a beautiful amber colour, clear and bright, with wisps of moss green, cobalt blue and bright gold threaded through it. The sharp white light from the centre refracted through the outer covering and came out warm and buttery with shattered rainbows at the edges. He knew for a fact that he had never seen this thing before, he would have remembered this, but it seemed familiar. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew what it was.

 

   “That’s Sam, isn’t it?” his voice came out hoarse and raw. He saw Cas nod mutely, looking at the great glowing ball almost _worshipfully_ , as though he wanted to fall to his knees in front of it.

 

   Sam, whatever he was, seemed to hear his name because the threads of colour swirled excitedly, like smoke in a tornado, and he grew to around the size of a horse. He flowed forwards, his shape changing, and a projection slowly, cautiously extended towards Cas. He heard Cas inhale sharply beside him and the thing that was Sam stopped, warily, as though it was waiting for him to come closer.

 

   Slowly, Cas inched forwards, ignoring Dean’s muttering and half-hearted attempts to hold him back. He could feel heat soft against his skin, as though he was warming himself near a fire, and he was sure that if Cas got much closer he would be burnt by it. Cas stretched out a finger towards the glowing tendril.

 

   Sam closed the last few centimetres and without a sound of warning, Dean’s entire field of vision got whited out by a surge of light.

 

…… …… …… …… ……

 

   Samuel was bright-white-light as he flew, up and up against the pull of gravity, towards the great emptiness of the sky. He stretched his brand-new-wings wide after months of captivity, his song of joy at being free still ringing out of him. He soared out of the atmosphere in half a second and expanded even more, comparing his size to the moon as he streamed past it. He found that they were about the same.

 

   He could have gone faster. He could have been where he wanted to go in a two-and-a-half millionths of a second, but he dragged his metaphorical feet. First of all, he didn’t even know where he was going. He didn’t particularly want to go to heaven again, new archangelic instincts or not. Also there was something behind him, something he needed to go back to. It was important, but his mind was so flooded with new information, a plethora of new instincts and it was hard to concentrate…

 

   He felt something sift up from below him, from the mass of lights. It was a thought. No, a _prayer_.

 

_Samuel, we need you to come back. Please, come back to your body._

 

   He halted his ascent by spreading out slightly. Pausing at the thin-cold edge of the solar system littered with gently-spinning rocks, he looked down. His awareness zoomed in, until he could focus on the light of friend-angel-Castiel among the multitude.

 

   _Samuel your brother needs you._

 

   Samuel vividly remembered _Dean,_ not only him but all the thoughts and emotions and memories that he associated with him as well, all of the love and anger and affection and annoyance. Through all of it was threaded the feeling of brother, of family. Yes, that was what was missing. He needed to return. Now.

 

   With a flick of thought he let gravity take hold and plunged back down towards earth, angling towards the dilapidated farmhouse. As he drew close, Castiel cried out to him again, this time with a bright thread of his True Voice shining through,

 

_No, Samuel! You will harm his vessel, you are too bright!_

 

   Samuel stopped dead and considered the problem. Yes, if he approached any closer (he was only fifty miles away) he would harm Dean’s eyes. Blurry human memories of blinding light and piercing-ringing surfaced. He didn’t want to hurt Dean, but what could he do? His vessel was broken, and he had no idea how to fix it.

 

   He sifted through his memories and found the answer almost immediately. It was a memory of a bright-bluish-white soul rising form a jar and darting out of a window. The light of it had been bright enough to make him squint but hadn’t hurt his eyes. He debated his plan for a second. Would this even work? Maybe he would appear different to Dean now? But he had to try.

 

   Carefully, he pulled his soul from the safe centre of his Grace and let it flow around the outside. His wings were slightly squashed as his True Form morphed and folded further into the pocket dimension, but eventually he managed to squeeze himself in. Making sure the Grace was cloaked completely, he made his way towards Dean’s soul, more slowly this time.

 

   It seemed to work; the only things he could feel in Dean’s mind were awe and terror and a thread of recognition rather than pain, and his body didn’t seem to be harmed. Affection was a strange sensation to feel without a vessel; it tugged on his soul, an itching friction between himself and his Grace. He circled Dean a few times, and glanced over at Castiel.

 

   He did a double take.

 

   The first thing that struck him was how _tiny_ Castiel was. He had always thought of him as an enormous, eldritch creature, had tried not to be fooled by the human shell he wore, but now Samuel dwarfed him. At first glance Castiel seemed to be made of only eager-white-bright Grace, so much smaller than his own but rippling with excitement at his presence like an eager puppy. But Samuel’s sight was stronger now and he was more aware, and he could see right to the centre of him. There, nestled deep in his Grace, was a soul. A tiny, miraculous soul. It was small but it glowed vivid-cobalt-blue, so intensely coloured that it almost looked solid. It shouldn’t have existed; angels were not created with souls, he knew by instinct that it should not be there, the Grace should have burnt it out.

 

   Yet there it was, glimmering as stubbornly as its owner.

 

   His mind hopped and jumped from that to another conclusion. If Castiel had made his own soul, did that mean that Gabriel could have as well? It seemed likely, he had spent so much time with humans that there was a chance he had picked up more than just a nasty sense of humour during his time on earth. Also Samuel knew from the memories that if Gabriel could have done anything to break the rules, and even spite his own nature, then he would have done it. Several possibilities occurred to him.

 

     _Later,_ he thought to himself, _deal with it later._ He turned back to Dean and Castiel.

 

   He cringed slightly when he looked at Castiel again. He couldn’t help it. Now that he was closer, he could truly see the damage to Castiel’s Grace. It was more than ripped and torn, it was _mutilated._ He had known before when he first saw his true form that he had been hurt, but now seeing the damage that had been done to his friend he was almost crippled by the wave of guilt that flushed through him, not as intense as the feeling had been when he was human but more than enough. He knew that he was at least in part responsible for most of the damage, directly or indirectly, and he cringed with every part of his being with the knowledge that it was his fault and he couldn’t help.

 

   Or could he?

 

   Hope rose inside him as he mulled it over. Actually, he probably could, now he thought about it. Yes, definitely. Concentrating, he stretched himself out towards Castiel’s Grace. It was strange to feel himself reach without the familiar weight of contracting muscles pulling bone, but he was getting used to it.

 

   After a moment of hesitation, Castiel stretched forwards with a tendril of Grace. As soon as he made contact Sam funnelled energy into him and Castiel grabbed for it greedily. He instinctively directed it so that it concentrated on Castiel’s shredded wings and the great holes weeping white light, and Sam watched with relief and fascination as the gashes closed and Castiel glowed brighter and brighter, letting out a musical sigh of relief.

 

   He had a moment of panic when he saw the last few bedraggled feathers drop from the bare wings and tried to pull away, but Castiel twined his Grace through Samuel’s and gripped harder at the connection. _Don’t worry, I have to moult them before I can grow new feathers. It will take them a few days to come through._

 

   Eventually Sam had to cut off the energy flow when the amount of light in Castiel’s Grace looked as though, if he gave him any more, Castiel would burst like an overfilled balloon. He marvelled at how little of his own energy it had taken, maybe a thousandth. And already his Grace was recovering from the loss, greedily absorbing the energy that his soul was giving off.

 

   _You need to return to your vessel now,_ Castiel murmured to him, the melodious chime of his Voice slightly louder and less strained than it had been earlier. He noticed that the fiery green soul of his brother was dimmed, the swirling flames banked. Samuel felt a moment of panic and snapped over to where his brother’s vessel lay on the ground. He gently touched his forehead, making sure that his body was safe. _I put him to sleep while we were exchanging energy so that he would not harm his eyes or brain,_ Castiel said to him reassuringly.

 

   Samuel chuckled. _He won’t approve of that, I’ll let you deal with that conversation later._ He marvelled at his new Voice, quieter than Castiel’s but slightly deeper and with a thousand more undertones. He hummed and giggled as it made the earthly dimension quiver like the strings on a musical instrument, his amusement making the spiking currents of energy running across the surface of his own soul spike and undulate wildly, which only made him laugh louder.

 

   He could see the awe streaking Castiel’s aura amber orange and royal purple as he inspected him, and he squirmed a little. It seemed that Castiel’s gaze had the same intensity whether he was corporeal or not. _You are coping with this transition remarkably well, better than I thought you would, but still I think it would be better if you were in a body, more similar to what you are used to. Would you like me to show you how to heal your vessel? Possession shouldn’t be a problem, I would think._

  He gave a sort of mental nod and flicked into the dark room at the back of the farmhouse where his vessel still hung from the rafters. The muscles were slowly beginning to stiffen with rigor mortis and the blood had stopped dripping, congealing in its veins and on the floor below.

 

   He looked at it and the still-human part of him balked. The sight of his body, not backwards in a mirror and hanging so still and silent and obviously dead, was horrifying. It was almost like having double vision; one part of him wanted to curl up and look away, while the other regarded the vessel with calm ambivalence. Although panicking wasn’t possible in his current form, he felt a tight curl of unease. That made up his mind.

 

   _Yes, help me get back in,_ he asked Castiel, who had walked in to stand beside him in the gloom.

 

   Castiel showed him with memories how to mend torn tissues and repair bone. The damage to the vessel’s nerves and brain was harder to mend, and finally he found the small clump of cells in the heart and reactivated them with a jolt, kicking the body back into life. Castiel stepped back and looked at the vessel in obvious satisfaction. There was no sign that it had ever been dead; the lungs breathed and electricity sparked through the nervous system, but he could see that it was empty. A life, but no soul. Well, obviously; he was out here.

 

   Samuel was gathering himself to retake his vessel when he felt a crackle of energy as another being slid across the dimensions to land next to them.

 

   He felt its anger and aggression, and faster than thought he reached out and caught the thing by the essence and the throat as it materialised. It wriggled and bucked wildly against his hold, squirming to get free as it hissed at him, murder in its eyes. Samuel looked into its mind and snarled as well, felt his own anger begin to burn.

 

_If you didn’t want them to kill your friend then you shouldn’t have tried to kill my brother and me!_ The words came out on a hiss and a rumble and a shriek as his True Voice increased in volume. The twisted, blackened Grace in his grip just snarled louder and shrieked back curses at him, not stopping its efforts to get free.

  

   Samuel’s growing temper began to manifest as lightning struck around the house from a cloudless sky. The air warmed dangerously and crackled with all the wild force of an approaching storm, but inside he felt the rage grow cold and hard as a ball of ice. The still-human part of him shuddered away from it; he’d felt that kind of anger before, from another angel. But it kept growing, it was out of his control, and he tightened his hold on the Grace of the snarling Grigori, throttling it with a savage glee as the instinct to smite roared through him. Unlike Castiel there was no shining soul at the centre of the Grace in his grip, and it crumbled to nothing as he punched a thousand holes in it and bled it dry, leaving only a burnt out husk. The body, human soul long gone, thudded to the floor, landing sprawled over the other woman.

 

   There was a moment of ringing silence as he floated in front of his vessel. The rage poured out of him as though someone had opened the floodgates, leaving him reeling and shocked.

 

   Did he really do that? He saw Castiel looking at him with a combination of awe and wariness and not a little fear, as though he was watching to see what he would do next.

 

   It was a little like the time he had killed Gordon, he found himself thinking distantly. Except this time there was no adrenaline, no hammering pulse, only the rapidly ebbing chill of his own fury forcing him to face his actions.

 

   Had that been him? He had known the instant he touched the Grigori’s Grace that it had wanted to destroy him; it wanted revenge for its accomplice and wouldn’t have stopped until they were all dead or worse.

 

   His reaction had been so uncontrolled and sudden and violent, he had killed it almost without a though, but he wasn’t feeling guilty. He couldn’t feel anything. Was this what an archangel was, just a weapon of mass destruction?

 

   _No,_ he decided emphatically. He had a choice. Even if that’s what an archangel was, that wasn’t _all_ he was. He had a soul and free will, and that had always been their point, hadn’t it?

 

   Sam focused himself, corralling his thoughts. He needed to feel again, his emotional slate was still a worrying blank and it disturbed him. He needed to get back inside his vessel before he lost himself again.

 

   He calmed the wild rippling of his soul and folded himself up, working on instinct, squashing and compressing until he flowed into the slightly open mouth of his vessel.

 

   It was uncomfortable, he decided as he settled, to be condensed this small. But his vessel had been built for archangels, designed for it, so he wasn’t damaging the body even if it felt as though he would burst out of the seams at any second.

 

   He folded away the last of his Grace and dropped fully into his vessel. With a jerk the world narrowed its focus through five senses, his thoughts cramped themselves into linear form. He took a deep breath with his lungs and blinked his eyes, looking down at Cas in front of him. He could feel the slow drain of blood away from his arms and the straining of his muscles, but the sensation registered as pressure rather than pain. With a thought, the metal of the cuffs around his wrists snapped like wet tissue paper and he dropped to his feet, staggering slightly.

 

   “Wow,” he croaked. He had realised how muted his emotions were in his other form, but now that he was back in body the razor edge of worry was slicing at the back of his mind, only exaggerated by the leftover adrenaline flowing in his veins. It was so intense, even after only a few minutes. No wonder angels had trouble coping with emotions.

 

   He wanted to check on Dean, even though he knew logically that he was fine. But there was something else he had to do. Right now.

 

   “I need to go to Elysian Fields. Go back to the bunker, I’ll meet you there.” the words came out raspy and deep, but given that his body had been dead five minutes ago it could have been worse. Cas didn’t even argue with him, hearing the urgency in his voice, just nodded as though he knew exactly what he was going to do.

 

   “Go. I’ll take care of Dean.”

 

   Sam smiled in thanks and Cas returned it, turning away to walk out of the farmhouse towards the dim glow where his brother was still sleeping.

 

   He spread his wings, marvelling at the broad, powerful span now that he was entrenched in his body again. He twisted them and snapped them back, pulling himself between the dimensions, memory and instincts guiding him. It was time to resurrect an ex-archangel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now, folks!
> 
> Sorry about the small cliffhanger. Don't worry, there is another one in the pipeline, but as of right now it is still in production.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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